I'm back. I don't know where I have just been...or what I did the past two days, but I'm back.
I left town after work on Saturday night. I slept on the plane, sure. But how much can you count sleeping on the plane as actual "sleeping?" So anyway, I flew through the night and got to New York by 10AM on Sunday the 11th. As in Sunday, September 11th. New York City. So, that was a little difficult...but what can you do.
I checked into my hotel and hit the streets by 11. Nothing was set in stone other than the idea that I had to see everything. Every corner, every neighborhood, every person. Two days later, back in LA, with feet that honestly border on Gangrenous...I got it done. And I'll have scars to prove it.
See, my process is such that I have the emotions and scenes in my head. Floating. Going to New York was my anchor. It means that I know the where...and well. Suddenly, I own every word I write. And that's everything.
The trip was insane. I didn't sleep Saturday or Monday night...at all. Right now, I'm either dreaming or delirious. Or...maybe I'm just being dramatic. No matter where I fall, the only thing for certain is that I should be in bed. Instead, I opt to rant.
New York is fucking crazy, seriously. It's just so different. A New Yorker may say the same about my City of Angels, but I don't see why. Los Angeles is just...softer. I don't remember seeing people smile in New York. I don't remember seeing people laughing. In LA, cars obnoxiously stop for pedestrians in crosswalks. In New York, it's hit and run derby. I was in New York and I missed LA. Now that I'm back in LA, I miss New York...even though I was only there for what felt like hours. You could say it's a grass is greener thing, but I don't think it's that simple.
My last night...last night was great. Just so you know, I don't believe in drinking and dreaming. It's cheap...and so false. I've seen one too many three beer Napoleon's to ever allow myself a fraction of the same freedom. But I had seen it all. Shoot me a neighborhood, any neighborhood...hell, shoot me a cross street and I could shoot back a 300 word impression, dead on. And that was one of my priorities. The rest was to be improv.
For instance, I saw the saddest woman I have seen in my life coming off the subway at Broadway and 14th. She stood in the middle of the crowd, parting them like the sea as she stood there, unmoving. Her eyes were glossed...and the bags underneath said a gloss was the driest they had been in some time. It was so moving. She was a white woman, mid 40's...and there was something so devastating living inside her. And you could feel it in her presence. Or maybe my pity stole some of her grief, if only in passing. Maybe that's how it works. I wanted so badly to know what it was. And it may sound strange, but I wanted to feel it...
I headed out alone with adrenaline on my side at about 10:30 last night. I've never had a problem flying solo, but for reasons only known to the author, last night I knew I was alone. A take a deep breath and blow it out, feeling. It was worth it though. It always is. I hadn't seen Alphabet City and told one of our chefs I would stop in at a late night Soho stop for a bite. So, I had somewhat of a plan. I started hopping. Bottle and shot became the name of the game. Jack/Guinness, Patron/Stella, Jaeger/Red Stripe...
And I'm not an alkie, I was just in good...spirits, happy to be doing what I love to do. Dreamrunning.
A few stops later, I wandered into Soho. One stop before my last destination, Blue Ribbon, old school G&R pulled me into a nice little side street bar. I was understandably weathered...but always hide it well. There was this sweet bartender who was named after that children's book publishing house...or something from my years in the third grade. I think it was...Scholastica? How one introduces oneself with a straight face when touting such a gem is beyond me, but she managed. I don't know when it happened, but it was just the two of us. She was buying my drinks and putting that best foot forward smile on the table. What could have happened next…well, use your imagination. Hot. But then she did it...she pulled out a book of astrology from behind the bar. Strike one, two and three. Scholastica didn't know it, but she was done. You see, I have issues. Issues that look to put a face through a brick wall when listening to my sign’s tendencies as defined by a book. How eat my own vomit, sweet. I left, promising (fingers crossed) to return after a quick bite next door. Maybe she waited, maybe not. I never made it back. Some blunders go beyond recovery.
I went to Blue Ribbon, had a couple glasses of red to go with my steamed Calamari, which was amazing. Pretty impressive bite to pick up at 3:45 in the morning. I can still taste it…all the satisfaction I would need that night.
I remember heading back to the hotel. Mid-town, right at Madison Square Park. The streets were naked and empty, which looking back was as good a sign as any that I should have probably been inside a cab. Instead, I Magellaned my way through the streets of New York in search of golden arches...where I unearthed a great conspiracy that NO McDonalds have working ice cream machines to facilitate the manufacturing of an Oreo McFlurry at 4:45 in the morning. Seriously...like 0-3. Maybe it was just a sign...no man should be ordering Oreo McFlurry's at 4:45 in the morning. That's like pre-breakfast. Just ain't right.
Exhausted from my explorations, I stumbled into my hotel room at a quarter past 5. With a flight to catch at 9, I jumped a cab and caught a plane. I don't remember navigating my way through the airport, mostly from exhaustion. I wasn't THAT under the bottle. I don't remember my two flights, or my stop over in Detroit. I don't remember getting back to LA, or rushing home to get changed, or the 3-minute shower. But I do remember getting back to work, where I finally had a moment to breathe. I didn't have an infinite agenda, or pumping energy. I didn't have a thousand things I wanted to do at once. It was like going through a time warp, and the last two days of my life had finally caught up after chasing me down all this time. If I were the crying type, they would have fallen right then. I don't know where this feeling came from, but it came...hard and fast. And it was crushing. I would have given anything to go home and be alone. Maybe I was getting my wish, to feel what the woman on the subway was feeling. That pain in her eyes. I wish it were that simple, to say it's not me...just some intervening force waltzing into my life, but it was obvious.
New York is a city of gravity. It can pull you down if you let it, and I can honestly say that I let it strangle me for those two days. I got everything that I went for, and almost got everything I needed...but for an hour when I got back, I paid the price. I'm exhausted...yeah. I was hung-over and hate traveling...yeah. I now have to deliver a script that has no excuse to be something other than remarkable...yeah. There's all that. But I know none are the culprit. What else can I say?
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