2006 - Zero Sum It Up

I might be fooled to think that nothing of import happened in the year 2006, but I'm sure after careful consideration, the losses and the gains might add up to where I was last year at this time, costing me nothing, zero.

But that is quite wrong. Despite the lack of acting or writing career improvement in a tangible sense, I have progressed in the world and grown to the clever recluse that I am today, if you consider a recluse one who attends three weddings in Norther Virginia, California, and Mississippi. And travels to Miami in January and again in December for the love of family. Not to mention the traditional New Jersey visit with the Filipino and Jewish/Italian crew, in separate locations, of course.

It started on the Upper West Side, living off the government dole for the husband of a recently-unemployed actress. The dole was spent, her new acting role helped, I modeled a bit, but nothing solid and stable, an occasional temp job here and there, until we were forced to move, without warning, by our landlords. Nice of them to give less than a month's warning that they were converting our apartment complex into a low-price hotel. We soon discovered this when women of high vocal talent screamed and moaned their way into our private dwelling. Maybe you pay for a night and the women are included? So forced out in May, and we had no power in our sublease state.

On to Brooklyn, close to the end of the line, saving and subway-ing it. A wedding outside D.C. happened, we found employment in an investment bank, working for bankers and lawyers, making more as temps than we were used to, albeit much less than the wife's Broadway money, that we lived so comfortably with for almost a year. Then summer came, and we never left. We saw a beach once, Memorial Weekend, Coney Island, if you can consider that a beach and not a broken-glass depository. We got our Nathan's hot dogs, and vowed never to return as beach-goers. I feared what lay in the water itself.

In the midst of the investment bank, the long commute, and the unfulfilled art, I began writing a blog and creating a website. September was my first full month of blogging, and Julie and I began our subway book club, to pass the hour both ways with enrichment and Asian-oriented books. Three Kingdoms, Snow Flower and the Secret Fan, Still Life with Rice. 3 Kingdoms was hearty and chock-full of early Chinese history, and the others gave historical and fictional accounts of life in China and Korea. I also read David Mitchell for the first time, Ghostwritten, and loved it. And if you have read my blog, the one book that is still haunting and beckoning me to write is Screenplay.

Did I mention the life-changing revisiting of Ayn Rand's The Fountainhead? Julie just finished it for the first time last night, and I am about to finish it shortly (I had to finish other books and get my own copy). Our little book club is enriching us and our sense of self, opening our eyes to what is false and real in the world. Atlas Shrugged is next... thanks to Dad and his encouraging gifts.

But the writing slowed down with the arrival of a new direction in work-related, time non-management, in my computer sales job. The time, energy and people-oriented position allowed me little discipline in writing, although another side of me has opened up. A side that isn't ashamed of my computer geek past and engineering experience. Embrace it, is what I say. But at this point of retail boom, that will begin to taper off, I must remember what I really want to do, and that has been tugging at me more and more through every hour I spend on my feet at the store.

Sure, there is a future there, but I feel my art calling me and this is the year when I really push for what I want. At least, push again the way I used to and show what I am capable of doing.

I always forget to mention that I was a VJ, a TV host, and I came very close to being one again here in the States this past year, which helped me to land an agent. I host many public functions and do it quite well. I love acting. I love writing. Why not combine the three and find my way into stand-up? It's the logical direction, and like Julie said, comedy has no time limit, unlike for women in modeling and acting. For men, it's another story. Although things have changed for women in the Desperate Housewives era.

So there's the potential direction. I still want to act. I still want to write. I still want to host. I can do it all. I will push the envelope, literally, licking and stuffing my own envelopes and mail out my face to the casting directors of the world, or how about New York and LA.

Our far apartment feels great. It's big, spacious and we keep our things in it. We have a car and a computer, due to resolution of past tax issues, and we are hoping to buy an apartment or house in the time to come. We want children, but our goal is to go to the Philippines and Japan first, to visit family, possibly work out there, and then we can have it all right here in the boroughs of New York.

This is 2006, and I am truly looking forward to 2007, married to the best friend and companion, the most beautiful woman in the world. I am thankful and fortunate, and just damn lucky to be in her presence every day. I am a better person for it. I'm filled with love right now for her, and the time we've recently spent with family, together. We are our own culture and comedy troupe of two, including our best sell-out audience. As fans of each other, the screaming and yelling of the cheering support, makes us grow and entertain and keeps life worth living. My love is in my chest and in the next room.

Time + Pressure = A Worthy Treat

The spice is back in the man. The tuna is merely for sustenance. Too bad I had a Chinese take-out tupperware filled with spaghetti and turkey-meat sauce. It not only sustains, it impregnates.

Which seems to be an ongoing, imposed opinion from the familial world, especially a niece and two nephews in particular. There is the usual fake pressure from adult friends and family, like, "So, when are you gonna have children," wink, wink, nudge, nudge-kind-of talk. And then, there is the direct and passionate questioning from the children, who want to be elders. "We want you to have children."

Julie asked them if they would be willing to babysit. "Oh, yeah. Of course." You do know that when we have children it will keep us very busy. "We know." And the baby will need a lot of attention, and Aunt Julie won't be able to spend as much time with you guys.

Silence.

Deep thought.

"That's okay." "Yeah, that's okay." When our niece summed up her self-view. "As long as I'm the only girl."

Ah, a healthy woman's view formed at 7 year old.

That's pretty much my attitude right now when it comes to being with my wife. Right now, I'm the only boy... and I like it that way. But if accidents happen, I can easily drop that male-centered stance. Though we feel like we're in no position at the moment financially to have children, we understand the time clock, and we're ready for the promotion from married couple to single-child family... after we take one big trip on our own, out of the country. After that, no problem.

Looks like 2007 is the year for that. We'll probably hit the Philippines and Japan, where the family lives, and come back richer, deeper and more voluminous after deep-fried pork intestines in the shape of a beautiful flower line our stomachs. Dip it in vinegar and it cuts the fat. In my mind.

Also in my mind, is my decision to take classes. I'm putting it out there now, that I will take improv classes and stand-up classes this year. There it is! Steps towards writing.

I'm going to re-read my writing books and actually start writing the beginning of my masterful script. 2007 will be a full year of accomplishments, as I climb the computer-retail ladder, it will sustain my spicy outpouring of words and well-versed wonder-whipping on page.

Commercials, TV hosting arise! Find your way onto my plate, and let me consume your utter financial freedom! Let me talk my way out of the hole, and send the energy my way!

Do Not Fear the Foe

There must be a reason that I haven't been writing. I'm so distracted by my work at the retail computer store. Distracted and exhausted. My schedule confuses me only b/c I wake up with my wife at 7am and don't go back to sleep, when I have to work at 5pm.

The creative voice is laying dormant in fear and repose. I have learned a Shakespearean monologue, finally. Now, I must learn a comedic one, and 2 more contemporary. That's the plan.

I haven't had one audition from my manager nor my agent. They ask for new headshots, but there has been a LONG dry spell of auditions.

I read Syd Field's book, Screenwriting and I was inspired to write an actual screenplay b/c of the ease in which Mr. Field explained the process, making perfect sense to me. It seemed easy, and I did the exercises up to a point. When I was supposed to brainstorm on a character biography, I stopped writing and continued on with the chapters reading.

That's where the fear kicked in, filled with self-doubt about my skills as a writer or creative voice. Doubts of why crept in as well. Why am i doing this? Why should I write something? How important could it be? How self-involved to write a story.

Then I read Kung Fu Monkey, the blog, and his Writing section helped me to understand that writing, no matter how creative and expressive, is still a job. A job that you work on 8 to 10 to 12 hours a day, if you are lucky and talented enough to be hired as a writer. As an amateur writer, that is the kind of goal to strive for, and remember, if I can force myself to write like it's my job (despite that my energy is consumed with two other jobs), then which "job" would I much rather do?

I don't like the temping job, despite the money. I like the computer store job, despite the lack of money and bad schedule. I may never know the possibilities of the money if I never write.

And at this point in my life, I have no creative writing under my belt, so that virginal project has yet to be popped out. That's the biggest wall. I've never done it, so I don't know if I can do it. Then I read, no matter how good your first screenplay, or play for that matter, it will not be produced. Well, play itself, I can produce with investors I know, but screenplay is a different monster. It takes agents to like the spec script, then it rests in their files forever. At least, I know that.

But with all my fears preempting my literary strike, I have no idea, and will only slow down in output in this blog. I know, I've looked. The number of entries are lower. Hey, I write more at the investment bank b/c I have more time. At the computer store, I am at the beckon call of the customer. The remaining time is precious, to be consumed by my loving and understanding wife.

There are no excuses. I know there is time in the days when I work the store, it's the sleep schedule that screws me up.

Basically, struggling artist, battles own demons to start a script. Fear is winning. Will he fight back? He is aware now, or at least, acknowledges the fear, the mighty foe. Is this the time to do battle with his own worst enemy? Tune in and find out.

Draft This

Almost two weeks since the election. Happiness ensues. Rep. Charles B. Rangel(D-NY) wants to reinstate the Draft. Slavery ensues. Again.

Now, I do agree with raising troop levels in Iraq to at least three to four times the amount present to win this war fast and get the hell out, but reawaking this devisive and unconstitutional measure seems insane and a throwback to dividing the nation. And of course, he had to be a long-time Democrat from New York. And here I was proud to be a New Yorker and relieved that the majority of Democrats won both the House and Senate.

Rangel's proposed bill and Sen. John McCain's trumpet for escalation is just what everyone was talking about after the election - bipartisan smooching and rubbing. I doubt it will pass, and the support of those in the military and in America will not allow such an event to happen, but I'm sure glad Democrats and Republicans are getting along so well, gosh darnit.

There has to be another way to do it. How? I have no idea. I don't want my brother, who is 23 this year, heading over there. I'll give him money for an extended trip to the Philippines instead of having that money go to his own personal body armor. While he's there, he can remind American officials of the past conflict, after the Spanish-American war. When the U.S. liberated the Philippines from the oppresive Spanish colonialism, a decade-long insurgency of Filipino nationalists and Muslims wanted to push America out of the region, reluctant to more foreign rule. The conflict was long, protracted and unpopular here at home.

I want America's past idealism to ring true in the present, but poor leadership has created a lesser world view of this once beacon of hope and prosperity. I don't want to think about it anymore. Iraq, war, immigration, Homeland Security, Terror. And that's why someone else is doing the thinking for me, our elected officials. It's their job to focus on it when everyone else must go about there lives. But if something like the draft starts to affect more and more people's lives, there will be dire consequences here at home, like the sixties, and individuals will start thinking for themselves and taking action.

After Hitler's invasions followed by Pearl Harbor, America rallied together with a million strong in the military through a phased draft and volounteers. Vietnam was a slow burn without a great rallying event for the people, although the Gulf of Tonkin incident sparked more military increases and a draft. 9/11 brought the country together and we felt accomplishment in Afghanistan, though Osama still has not been found. But along the way, the course was not stayed, and we ended up in Iraq. Something else needs to be done by our country as a whole to rally together again, in order to prevent the tragedy and national mourning of another 9/11. If a large scale attack happened, our country would again rally, and it is absolutely possible that attacks will occur. If that happens, a draft might be feasible. But that doesn't mean I'd agree with it. And neither would Americans, taking their cause to the streets.

Vote or Die, again

With the election tomorrow, I feel compelled to read as little as possible about who's who in New York. I don't like what's going on, so I want them out. I'm not even living in New Jersey, but the constant, ugly barrage of mud-slung ads is making me feel dirty. I need an apolitical shower.

Wash away the dirt and grime that has put a stranglehold on America. Even though it's common knowledge that the New York Times' has a strong liberal bias, I don't really mind. I'm a re-transplanted New Yorker, born North, grew up South, moved back North with a liberal-conservative mesh of sensibilities. The NYT's editorial on the election is about the only thing I've read, and I appreciate the writer attempting to re-define the NYT as a common supporter of moderate Republicans, but this year, the NYT supports none. I hope that that is enough soap to promote good voting hygiene.

How many scandals can there be? How many more hypocrites of the Christian right can be exposed? How many Constitutional rights can be tread on roughly and swept under the rug of Checks & Balances, only to be recovered when the next staff of Washington's sanitation workers comes into power. Our republic is a war of inches, and each inch that is given away, bill by bill, Patriot Act by Patriot Act, will slowly lop off the feet and limbs that support a free and more perfect Union.

I'm so tired of the way things are being done. I don't follow politics as much as some, and I know more than others, but as an everyday citizen who watches enough of the news over the past four years, and reads into little details here and there, I want them all gone. I want our country's rights back and a departure from the fall into executive dictatorship that has happened with a Republican-led House, Senate and Executive Office.

I may be speaking in general terms, but I know enough of the specifics to feel embarrassed about what's going on in our country. I never thought there would be such a return to the storied past of the Vietnam era. Scandal and war, secrets and cover-ups. I thought that the culmination of those times would end with progress and change, and learning from the past. But under-achieving cowboys tend not to learn about the failures of the times when partying it up on Daddy's bill, snorting blow and failing at running a business.

If we're going to dive into the past, I want to call upon a voice of the past, a fictional one that called to a nation to get "Mad as hell, and [I'm] not going to take this anymore!"

I hope the nation is angry. I hope the angry turn out to vote. I hope the winners shake up the current losers in office, and I hope the new leaders will not fall into weakness the way the current base, fearful representatives have done.

We need hope and we need courageous individuals who are willing to risk there first term on doing what is right and fighting for it, life or death. Life or death is what our soldiers are facing, and life or death is a suicide bomber's choice culmination. Our leaders need to be willing to die politically in order to save our country. Let them be martyrs for the Cause. Otherwise, we shall sit in this pigsty for another two years, maybe longer.

Today's Fortune

A week's gone by without writing a blog. Funny how I write more at the investment bank than at the retail computer job. It's just been difficult to get situated in my contrasting schedules. Mondays and Fridays I work the nine-to-five life, Tues-Thurs I work 5pm-midnight. I was working 7pm-2am, catching the subway and getting home at 3:30am... not my preference.

I used to do it all the time, cater-waiting, bar tending, working as a bellman at a fancy, boutique hotel. I didn't mind then, when I was single and had no one to come home to. But now I do, and home is all-important. I was also living in Manhattan, so the commute wasn't so bad. If it was way too late, I'd take a cab home. A $40 ride doesn't fly in the distant realm of Brooklyn, far, far away. A normal person with a car can go a hundred miles in two hours. But us super creatures, highly-evolved at public transportation, can travel 10 to 20 miles. By car, at night without traffic, we could drive to north New Jersey in a half hour. By train, two hours. That's why we rarely visit family across the Hudson.

And that's why we accept automobile donations. Feel free to leave the keys in the car. Just holla and pull the car up to the curb. We'll gladly take it off your hands. Hell, I'd take your yellow cab if you offered. It's just that people would try to flag us down all the time. It'd be a little weird with strangers jumping into my backseat all the time. "No, I'm sorry, can you get out." That's why they invented locks, yes.

We like to tell ourselves that being in the City is worth it. It's where we have to be. It's where all the action is and where all our business is done. Well, it is. But being a son of the South, where cars and trucks are lifeblood, I miss the freedom of just walking outside, braving the elements for only a minute or two while the car warms up or cools down, and propel myself to point B. In New York, there's no avoiding the elements. It is in your face.

Two days ago, it felt like spring. I was walking around in flip flops, T-shirt and jeans, thinking, I love November. Today, it's frickin' winter, and I'm ready to migrate my tail feathers to Miami. "That's the Chicago way. And that's how you get Capone." Huh? Sean Connery at his best.

Pulling back into the bank building - I like to pretend and use a car metaphor, I can dream - I realize it's the simple things that make me happy. Sharing the subway ride, snuggling up to my honey. Eating a nice warm Everything bagel, which includes rock salt on the Everything, giving it that extra Umph, stuffed with hot eggs, ham and melted cheddar. Breathing easy and in good health. A decent paying job that gets us by, allowing me to write a little, while holding onto the dream. A hot-as-hell apartment in frigid little Moscow (I've said hell twice, now three times - I'm so free-wheelin'). That's what keeps me going.

I'm really appreciating, in this moment, all that I have. I've got my family, friends, and the love of my beautiful bride. I'm a fortunate man.

What's Going On?

Sometimes, I have no idea what the hell is going on in the world. It just happens. I lose touch. Civilization keeps going. It doesn't miss me. I feel left out. Yet I don't feel like catching up.

Maybe I'm tired and sick. The sick is clouding my mind, and the tired is blocking the keyboard, defending any impending offensive. That is why I attack now!

I work nights and days, and in between the work, I sleep to catch up. I leave clothes to pile, dishes to soak, refrigerator to empty, emails to check, phones to answer, and wife to be alone. Now the sickness punches drain holes in my face, and I snort and I sneeze and I hock. My shoulders need kneading, my muscles need flexing, my gut needs shrinking, and I don't drink the milk or juice. There is no milk or juice. I am guilted by my childhood filled with milk or juice and I want to drink them. Instead I order three types of pasta at a corporate buffet line. Much better choice.

At least I flaked on grated calcium in the form of parmesan. There's my intake for the week. Oh, and I had two McDonald's cheeseburgers last night, each with a healthy portion of non-American cheese slices. Does fried chicken have calcium? Maybe I'll gnaw on the bones. Dead things are good for me.

I do watch movies. Based on my readings, I've been breaking down the acts. Around 25-30 minutes in, an event will turn Act 1 into Act 2. Then, 85-90 minutes in, another event will turn Act 2 into Act 3, later to be resolved in 25-30 more minutes. I'm trying to spot the act changes. And I'm analyzing the first 10 minutes of every film I've watched, attempting to see if the screenplay reveals the point of the movie in those 10, because consciously or subconciously, we make a decision on whether or not we like a movie in the first 10 minutes. That's what Syd Field says, anyway, in Screenplay.

Now I'm reading How Soccer Explains the World by Franklin Foer. Interesting read and history lesson on the world's game.

Now I leave Corporationia and have a date with my wife. Filipino food and a movie. Probably The Departed.

Weekends are so necessary when traveling to Corporationia.

Post-Katrina Coast Visit: Part 2

I've had a hard time getting back to writing this, simply because of time and my new schedule. It's also difficult to face the reality of our visit to the Gulf coast region. It wasn't all bad, in fact, we met and hung out with wonderful people at the wedding, many from Gulfport and Biloxi. They were a refreshing contrast to the constant stream of New Yorkers and transplants in our lives. These are true Mississippi natives, and although they were beaten down and feel the daily affect of seeing the barren and damaged coastline, they were quite happy to celebrate one of their own joining the marriage club.

The happy couple, being our New York friends, which means one is from Ohio, the other from Mississippi, invited an American sampling to descend into Biloxi. Guests from Georgia, Michigan, New York, Ohio, Mississippi, California, Colorado, and more I'm sure, hit one of the only operating casino resort hotels in Biloxi, recently re-opening its doors a month and a half ago, just in time for the wedding.

The Beau Rivage is like a beacon of commerce, gambling and hope in an otherwise emptied region. But I only realized this after driving back and forth from Biloxi to Gulfport several times, hotel to hotel to church to hotel. That's when I really saw all the excessive destruction first-hand.

From the Beau Rivage to Gulfport, along US 90, Beach Boulevard, is an eleven-mile stretch of coastline road that was once bursting with beach tourism, hotels, gambling, and wealthy Victorian and modern homes along the Gulf's beaches. It even had its own floating pirate-ship casino anchored off-shore, I was told by one of the sisters in the wedding party. One could walk or bike the beach promenade, fish along the many piers, or swim in the endless sea. Now, one is lucky to see any solid structures left standing, piers are either gone or platforms have been washed away, leaving posts and splintered beams signaling where piers used to be. Toppled tombstones are now just rocks atop a cemetery. Lonely beach-combers are sparse too, not only because of the off-season, but because No Swimming signs announce the hazards of swimming in debris-filled waters.

The first time I drove the stretch, the damage is so in your face that it's hard to absorb it all. The rosy-colored excitement of being a wedding guest cushioned me from what I was really seeing. I saw the damage, gave my obligatory awe, and continued onto the rehearsal. Returning to Biloxi is when it began to sink in. There it was again. It wasn't going anywhere.

The third time, on my way back to the church in Gulfport, I drove alone since my wife was in the wedding party. That's when it really sunk in. Piles of rubble are everywhere, hollowed out first floors leave mini-malls looking like they were built on stilts. Once grand hotels with all the windows blasted out have no facades or outer decor except concrete or rusted steel bones. Only a few have begun construction and re-painting the obligatory beach pastel colors of tourist destinations. A Holiday Inn or Ramada are rebuilt and open, which seems like deep corporation pockets can afford to re-build within Katrina's anniversary. The wealthy fared no better.

The sister also described the booming beach town for me, so I could imagine the difference. Even though presently, that damage is on every corner, she said it was so much worse. Cars stacked on top of each other, the pirate ship moved thousands of feet inland, resting on top of a church, once the waters receded. Palms and other trees snapped like twigs and left amid crushed houses.

But before the storm, she explained, this was a wealthy community, with house after house of gorgeous, Victorian homes, a road one would drive on to look at houses and dream of the good life. In my third trip along 90 going west, I only remember two fully re-constructed homes of livable quality. The rest were under contruction or replaced by empty lots.

Some stand-outs - an owner left a sign in front of their dilapidated dwelling - "Gone to the Virgin Islands" spray-painted on a large wooden panel. Another one says it all: "We're home. We'll Shoot. Don't Lute." This spelling-challenged message is painted on the side of the house. The mall is re-opened, but restaurants are few. Waffle House has fresh bricks and a sparkling sign. The only thing remaining of McDonald's is a hollowed out signpost, the golden of the arches is gone(the photo is foggy but you can make it out).

To the east is a Bay of Biloxi oasis, tradition, and my high recommendation. You can't miss the ubiquitous ads on beach benches along US 90 - Aunt Jenny's Catfish Restaurant in Ocean Springs, Mississippi. Their website pitch is great - Elvis was there, but I didn't see the photos. I wonder if there is evidence, but since we were wrapped up in the rehearsal dinner, I never even knew at the time that the King had graced Aunt Jenny's cellar lounge. I was told there was once a bridge from Biloxi to Ocean Springs on Beach Blvd., but Katrina saw to that. So from Biloxi, lovers of all-you-can-eat, fried everything - catfish, shrimp, chicken, hushpuppies, and more - must travel north on I-110, east on I-10, then back down along Washington Avenue to reach this staple of Southern-style cooking.

Tubs of cole slaw were waiting for us on the table, waiting to be forked out. Buttermilk biscuit baskets were passed out with butter and apple jelly, but I mixed it up with one of the squeeze bottle condiments, next to the ketchup and cocktail sauce - honey. Since it was on the table, I did as the locals do and doused my flaky, buttered biscuits with the luscious, dark goo. This appetizer dessert balanced out the slaw's sass. I must be hungry right now because I'm craving it bad. I want my fix of bee-bourne sweet and salty, wet bread. It's not just the taste, it's the slow pour of honey over the wafting biscuitry, the tease of Gulf goodness.

Definitely a highlight. Need I describe the endless plates of lightly-breaded, yet greaseless shrimp, dipped in spicy cocktail, also squoze (I like saying squoze) from a transparent plastic bottle. I collected the shrimp tails in scores. And did I say chicken?! No chain from a colonel can compare. The catfish was the staple, and tasty, mind you, but I preferred my other two friends of the down-home.

(still to be continued; see more Gulfport photos)

Post-Katrina Coast Visit: Part I

I've never witnessed anything like this. It's hard to imagine a thriving beach resort area when you're observing destruction and devastation all around. First off, I never thought I'd be in Mississippi. What do I know about Mississippi except that it holds the name of the Mighty River, Tom & Huck, Civil Rights, and the Bible Belt. The capital is Jackson and Neil Simon wrote a brilliant World War II, semi-autobiograpical play, Biloxi Blues, a comic documentation of his basic training experience set in Biloxi. And I have no reason to go to Mississippi except that a friend of ours had a wedding there this past weekend. That's the only reason we found ourselves flying into New Orleans and driving an hour east along I-10, to Biloxi and Gulfport, neighboring towns on the Gulf Coast of Mississippi.

After landing in New Orleans International Airport, I felt this excitement that we were taking a break from New York, and getting a chance to tour post-Katrina New Orleans. I had been there for the Sugar Bowl at the end of the '95 college football season, when Virgina Tech lost to Texas, and I experienced a resemblance to Mardi Gras for New Year's '96. I was hoping that after more than a year, life might have begun to return to the once thriving Crescent City. The ominous Superdome had re-opened for the Saints return, so I thought that that signaled a start to recovery. I was only partially right.

We decided to grab an authentic cajun lunch in the French Quarter and contribute to the local economy, before heading east to Biloxi. Taking I-10 downtown from the airport, we saw the crisp white dome from the highway, surrounded by skyscapers. It looked brand new, but hidden beneath, I couldn't help remembering the images of human suffering, so publicized by the media. Driving further, questions arose: What was underwater? What was it like before?

As we exited onto Esplanade, the northern border of the Quarter, we encountered damage for the first time, in the form of collapsed housing and piles of wooden debris, completely wiping away large lots. This has been covered again and again, but I've never seen it first-hand. It was awful. And this is only the visible manifestation of nature gone wild. We parked our rental car on Burgundy Street, close to the Hotel St. Pierre, my haven a decade ago, and walked past a closed and vacant corner bar on the corner of St. Anne, which used to overflow with leather-clad men. My first encounter with a gay bar back then, but now the streets were empty.

Blue flags hung high along buildings, donning the Saints' fleur-de-lis and claiming New Orleans' "Rebirth." The sound of hammering and sawing echoed along the silent streets and breeze at noon. This was not the vibrant city that we had once visited, overflowing with people. Not even on the famed Bourbon Street was debouchery pouring into sidewalks for lunch hour cocktails. Scattered tourists and convention goers (I overheard a passing patron) left ample room to wander, and aside from two or three re-opened bars broadcasting jazz and pop hits on loudspeakers, Bourbon did not boast it's party atmosphere. Many neon lights were lit for business despite the lack of customers.

Although we had to hurry on to Biloxi for the rehearsal and rehearsal dinner, I doubt we would have stayed much longer. There was a quiet sadness in the air, much like, as my wife put it, New York City after 9/11. I tend to agree. So we got the heck out, only after being lured into a pastry/candy shop by the aroma of cooking pecans and pralines. Our first contribution to local business. After a quick and spicy gumbo at Cafe Beignet, we bolted, leaving a fallend city behind.

On the road, along the raised highway, we surveyed the damage from above, which was still clearly visible. So many homes destroyed, and especially on the way to Biloxi, crossing the swamps leading up to the Bayou, whole communities are the skeletal remains of once, suburban neighborhoods. Gas stations, malls, Six Flags... all ripped apart and left to give passersby a constant reminder that a horrible tragedy occurred here, and there is still so much to be done.

(to be continued)

Yo Asian-Americans!

Last Thursday, we attended a fundraiser/roast for the New York Asian Women's Center in honor of Kyung Yoon, TV journalist. My lovely wife sang with Juan Pineda, roasting Kyung Yoon, while artists, Heather Greer, Liubo Borisov, and Woody Pak presented their installation, LivingPortrait. Pretty amazing stuff. Many of the Asians in journalism in New York were there as well: Cindy Hsu, Ti-Hua Chang, Juju Chang, David Ng, and as MC, the one and only, Connie Chung.

No matter what has transpired in the past year, replayed on the entertainment shows and YouTube, and with the controversy regarding Newt Gingrich's mother, causing her departure from CBS news, Connie Chung is a pioneer, not just for women, but for Asian-Americans in general.


I didn't like what happened, and was slightly disgusted because as a viewer, I want to hold our news professionals to a higher standard. But despite that, I used to watch Connie Chung all the time growing up, and especially with my mom, being the Asian of the family. It was like one of our own was out there, and as I look back, I feel proud that Connie Chung broke the barrier down for all the Asian-American journalists that pepper local and national news. In all markets, serious journalism tends to have an Asian-American on their TV screens, like the ones noted above, including others like Liz Cho and Nina Pineda in New York City. There are others, but I don't have the names.

I am by no means a new correspondent or journalist, but I appreciate the placement of these people in the public eye. It reaffirms the changing face of America, and I am fine with that. America's face has always changed, but all the uproar surrounding immigration and closing our borders in the wake of 9/11 makes me sicker than Kathryn Gingrich's interview. The GOP is wants to keep out the Latins, the Asians, and any other race that doesn't blend nicely with their own pale complexion.

So, I say, hooray for Connie Chung and for what she has acheived, and despite the efforts of the right to keep ethinic diversity out of America, a more colorful representation will continue to grow and prosper here in this land. If it doesn't, another country will take over as a rich melting pot of cultures.

I have more to say, but I have to get ready for work.

I've been working my second job, nights. Coming home at 3am, keeping me away from my wife, although I love the job, and it's only been my first full day after completing the training. I like it there, but maybe I can change the schedule a bit. It'd be different if my wife worked nights too, but the opposite schedules will keep us apart three days of the week. It's only temporary. It's all temporary.

I'm watching FC Chelsea vs. FC Barcelona in a Champion's League match as I write. How will it end? So far, 0-0 at the half.

Stripped and Painted

We are a collection of our experiences, our history, a summation of what we've learned from books, interactions with the world, and with other human beings.

In the process of finding ourselves, that journey which all human beings go on at some point, as we discover and strip away our fears of what everyone, the world has told us about ourselves, what is left?

What if I choose to wipe away everything, good or bad, that anyone has told me? Take away their observations, compliments and insults. Strip it all away, so that I may form my own opinion?

What if I had been praised wrongly? That maybe what I"m not good at was only encouraged by praise so that I wouldn't feel bad?

"You are a brave soul." What if I told that to my child at three years old, then again at four, and five? What if he or she is not? How would that change him or her?

That's what I mean by all the praise you've received since birth. What were the motivations behind them? And were they completely true? Or were they irrevocably biased to begin with, coming from a parent or teacher who was from from expert on particular matters?

Strip it all away, and what do you have left? Is it a pure, unvarnished, untouched soul? A floating spirit or entity (without recourse), universal in nature, like all other souls, or unique? Would we then be one with all or completely isolated?

I wonder this while sitting on a subway, wondering as my soul is propelled forward, within the body, to a physical location.

I have changed my job, my career and interests many times. And these decisions are based on my learnings, my experiences.

What would I then do if I was to strip it all away? Where would I go? How would I live?

Perhaps that is the essence of daily life. Stripping and adding, like a coat of paint. Two coats. No wait, it's time to clean house. Back to the wood and dry wall. Raw.

What would you be, raw? I know who I am more than ever, but this present is different than that moment I've just left behind.

This is me now, stripped and painted, stripped and painted.

It will always be...

Morning Glory

I'm sitting back atop the investment banking shrine to money-making, and it feels... okay. So far, they've left me alone. So far, I've been able to eat my breakfast in peace. Oatmeal, raisins, and two tablespoons of brown sugar, that, when left for a few minutes, melts into a gorgeous caramel pool, sunken within the mound of meal. Raisins swim freely in my clandestine, Chocolate Factory, oasis in my cubicle, also known as a styrofoam bowl. At least the raisins are able to enjoy their hot, yet all too brief summer by the pool, unlike myself. For that, I take a bite. And another. And another. Until any liquid that was once heated recreation for age-d grapes is but a fond memory, cast into non-existence. Or in the raisins' case, disintegrated and re-formed in foulness.

Onto the yellow core of a boiled chicken embryo; my prisoner. It thought I didn't know it was hiding behind it's white mantle, but I knew. I know, you sly sphere. So I peel away the soft crust of its globe, after ample salt-seasoning, and without a lawyer nor a tribunal, I gulp down in tortuous pleasure, its only safety. I place the yellow remnance back into the plastic disposable from which it came, and watch it watch me. Naked. Unrealized. Doomed.

That is how I start my morning. That is how I transcend my day. Dare any soul contest the fate of the fearful? Not on my watch.

'Tis but a lonely leaf, quivering in the breeze, finding a new home on the dirt in autumnal solitude, crisp and dead. A leaf among a Universe of leaves and leaving this realm for another. Not mourned. Not missed. Simply, gone.

And it gives me yummy goodness and uppity energy, all the live-long day!

For my Love

The reason why I put links to screenwriters' blogs is for my own personal inspiration. Working two jobs has given me a new outlook on what I want in this world. I have to make my mark. I know that I'm a good writer and I haven't actually written a screenplay yet, but I know that I will. It's in the cards. It's hard-wired into my being.

I may not be acting in anything at the moment, so writing this blog is my creative outlet, besides attempting to learn how to write a screenplay. I'm training at my retail computer job, where learning about the products I find exciting. I need a side career or a side of me needs to grow and learn something that will have an immediate impact on my life, and this computer job is providing that for me.

This may not be the stragitforward way of learning how to edit films, like going to the creme de la creme of film schools, NYU or UCLA, but it's roundabout, and Roundabout ain't just a theatre company in New York. It's the way to get an education without having to pay obscene amounts of money for tuition or textbooks. In fact, they will train me to learn so that I can teach others. That's the food stamps way. And although I don't live on food stamps, I can appreciate the glue-y quality of adhesive paper squares.

I'm putting my heart into it. I am a trained actor, but I am an untrained screenwriter and filmmaker. I consider myself a film-watching expert, analyzing, breaking it down, and respecting the artform for all it can provide humanity. I beleive in film, and I want to partake, somehow, some way, I will be in or make films in some matter. That's why I'm taking my introductory screenwriting class write now. My classroom... the subway. My text books: Screenplay, Story, How Not to Write a Screenplay.

That's enough for now. I'm taking it a chapter at a time and doing the exercises. It's not NYU, but it's a start.

It's for my love of art and expression, and for the love of my wife. We are doing this. We are having a family. We are buying a home, and are able to live comfortably. That's the mantra. That's the way.

So, I link to professional screenwriters as a part of the mantra, and despite what is going on in the world, the fear-induced return to the nuclear threat and a war with no end in sight, I will have this. I have my love and that is how I'll change the world.

Fugliness, Fox and Foley

As I sift through the many videos surrounding the Republican Congressman Mark Foley Pedophile Scandal, I am finding a need in me to be a man of integrity. I want to claim responsibility. But before I do, let's let Fox Report, and You Decide. Maybe it was a simple mistake, or maybe Fox tried to label the alleged pedophile, online, sex predator, Mark Foley-Florida Republican, as a Democrat, because it was a tiny attempt at disinformation. You decide:



"We Report [non-fact-checked, accusatory lies to pander to our conservative-based audience, then retract only after the false word is out]. You decide."

I like the new Fox News motto.

The second slippery reaction to Rep. Foley's scandal is from many Republicans:



Then there's blaming the Democrats for even having the Congressional Page program to begin with, because if it weren't for the pages, then Congressmen wouldn't be tempted to solicit online sex.

That's like blaming parents for having children, because how could they have children when they know sexual predators are out there.

Someone needs to take responsibility, and since know one is doing it, including Foley, blaming his alcoholism and victimized molestation by a clergy member in his childhood, I will.

I am responsible for Foley. He is my bequeathed and I taught him wrong. It's not his fault that he is gay. It's not his fault he asks young boys if he "makes [them] a little horny?" It's my fault for not speaking up earlier when I knew my child was going down the wrong path of God's fallen. I'd like to blame God for making him like this, and I'd like to blame God for making the rules so hard that Foley could never live up to them, but I must blame myself.

For your entertainment, the Daily Show's coverage:



Ah, there's all the angles. Normally I would just chalk this whole scandal up to a man with a problem, but because it's Congress, I can't help but enjoy watching the hypocrites flounder.

Whistle Blows

Smoke poured from his head, as the walls squished and squeezed upon his life force.

Whoa, nelly! Hold her down! Don't let the fray tear from the scalp!

He grasped and tugged, digging his soles into the carpet. Not only was the floor rumbling from this great row, but the grumbling train below reminded the fighter, that it was time to go!

Leave the work behind!

Scattered and Sleepy

In case you're wondering, I've started training for my new job. I love it so far.

I'm hooked on Studio 60. I'll go into it more at another time. Just finished The Nine, and it has got some excellent acting and writing. I never even got into Lost, but these actors have sucked me in, along with the concept and a story that keeps me asking, What happened? Tim Daly has got some chops, as well as the whole ensemble - I don't know their names... yet.

Julie and I are trying to find a way to get to Miami, the 2nd week in December. We need to get out of the City. The only beach we went to this summer was on the broken-glass sand of Coney Island, Memorial Day Weekend. Easy access, 5 stops away on the subway. Now you know our pain.

My mind is scattered at the end of the night. It's back to the bank tomorrow morning, then back to the store on Friday. Maybe I'll start catering again, but then I'll never see my wife. Ah, I'll pass.

It's time for bed.

The parents are up from Virginia, visiting with my tita (aunt) from the Philippines and her friend, so we're heading to New Jersey again for the weekend. That's vacation enough, I guess.

Highlight of the day: watching the sunrise from the subway platform with my honey.

Be the Change

I used to welcome change and bend like a reed to the winds of the unknown, taking pride in spontaneity and living in the moment. Today I start a new job at a large computer retail store, and I am filled with fear. Fear that I'm making the wrong decision, fear of the pay cut by almost half, of not being able to use tickets to a Broadway show with my wife this week due to my unusual schedule (seems petty, but we have little money to spend on Broadway shows and we had to see a friend of ours perform), and, especially, fear of not seeing my wife.

The three days of part-time work will be the opposite of the daily corporate routine that Julie will continue working. My schedule is at night, and that cuts into our moral support of each other getting through the day. I know we'll be fine, but this is a drastic change. I'll be getting home in the early morning hours just before she is waking up. People do it all the time, but it's new to us.

It's only temporary, we always say, on the great journey of our goal-oriented lives, and working with this company is, intellectually, a big deal. Emotionally and financially, however, it feels like the wrong decision. Maybe in the next few months, as they see my dedication to learning and the job, I'll get a raise and/or change positions. Maybe that is when I'll feel like I've made the right decision. When we move to California, and getting a job this company is easy, then my decision will feel better.

I'm also diving into a completely new environment; retail is a sector I avoided die-hard, as I sought to become an engineer in the past and actor in the present. I've worked in offices, waited tables, bartended, been a bellboy, catered parties, and of course, acted, but never have I crosed into the realm of retail. Aah, I'll be fine. I'm already over it as I write.

I just hope that the goals that I've set for myself, that I'm working toward, and the reason for being in New York - to be a working actor that can live off of work - will benefit by the choices my wife and I are making now. I also want to be paid for writing, so this ongoing blog is practice for the future.

Without this free resource that I learned about during my interview process, this continuous creative outlet might still be a twinkle in my subconcious. Though, I plan to graduate to another blogging website, purely my own with my own web address, so that I can join the blogging community. Blogger, Wordpress and beyond!

The love in my heart is what drives me forward, for my life and for my wife. Without her support and love, I wouldn't be making this change. With her, I feel all things are possible.

Worlds Collide

I’m sitting on the miniature trading floor on the 38th floor, waiting for the phone to ring, and it will. Donning an operator headset, I feel like I’m on a stock photo shoot for anything telemarketing. Smile and enjoy the call like you never enjoyed a call! Say “A” with a smile as the camera flashes, and it opens your mouth like your having a satisfying conversation. “A.” Oh yes, I’m a professional.

Phones chirp, buzz and ring while printers hustle and shoot out paper. Male voices overlap and laugh, as the traders on the floor rib one another. Female assistants with New York drawls, “tawk” on the phone with cell phone companies, husbands and other assistants tawking, sounding like a New York movie, but it’s not. It’s real. They stand like prairie dogs over their cubicles to have a conversation about the season’s new TV shows. They cover the spectrum, from Brad Garret’s new show to Grey’s anatomy. Did you catch it last night? Yeah, it always runs over. Did you see Ugly Betty? No. It takes you a while to get into it, but it’s good, kind of sad. Isn’t Brad Garret married to Joely Fisher, yeah. What’s that show called? ‘Til Death do us part? ‘Til Death? But did you see the commercial for Ugly Betty? If you see it, it’s on the same channel as Brad Garret is on. Because Mike and I saw the commercial for Ugly Betty and we started laughing. You gotta watch it. Joe So-and-shmoe’s office?

The phone rings for me. Kevin Kakawakas office (not his real name)? Is Kevin there? One second, I’ll check. I look for him. I don’t really know who he is. I interrupt the ladies, Is Kevin here? They look. Pointing at an empty seat, He usually sits there, you know, the bald guy, all-the-way bald. But, oh, there he is. I yell, Kevin? No response as he walks to his seat. My look to the women says, Is that Kevin? They all yell Kevin! Without acknowledging us, he grabs for his phone, then gives a slight turn and nod, like, Yeah, I know, and answers the phone.

One assistant says, What? Like we can read your mind. Like we know that you heard us. We share a laugh, and one says, Don't worry, Jon. We got your back. Thanks.

Their phones start ringing and the prairie dogs go back into their holes. I look across the floor to see sunlight peaking through gray, hanging clouds. No walls give me an un-obscured view through distant conference room windows. Nothing to block the sun or the shouting of names over cubicles and long desks. Two computer screens per person. One screen normal Windows, the other usually has a graph or a chart in red, green, blue, and black. The energy is exciting, and I don’t mind all the noise around me, as long as my phone bank isn’t ringing. They may ring around me, but my little cube is quiet. The phone bank I’m covering consists of four bankers today, and can be as many as six, minimally one.

That’s the job. and I appreciate the laissez-faire attitude of my bankers. No reports, no scheduling, no travel planning. Nice and smooth, so far. Don’t want to jinx it, though. That’s the best part of temping. They don’t expect too much from you because you’re only here for a day or two. And if they do give me a lot of busy-work, I feel betrayed by the code of temps. Make copies for you? Dude, the code. Print out stuff for you? The code. I can only do as little as possible.

Sure, I say that, but I’m more than willing to do the busy-work when I’m not writing. It makes the time go by so much faster. If I could write all day consistently, without interruptions though, that would be ideal. But sporadic freedom isn’t bad. Not for long, though.

I’m saying a partial good-bye to the executive assistant life and sharing it with retail. But not just any retail store. Gone will be the days of writing during work hours. Welcome to the days of standing on my feet for eight to ten hours, talking to non-technical customers about technical toys. It’s been keeping me up nights. Will it be enough money? Is this the right decision? I’ll be working late nights during the week, and will I spend enough time with my wife? Am I going to be able to continue blogging?

Setting up my new website is the most stressful for me, right now. There’s so much to learn about which site-tools to use, which web hosting has enough storage, costs the least, is the easiest, the best customer help service, what name I should choose for the website. should I keep the one I have now, or should I get rid of it using the new one exclusively?

Looking at photos of children on today’s desk, I wonder when we’re going to have our own. So many unaccomplished goals and debts aren’t shrinking in our current situation. This assistant has two boys on a giant button, probably printed at the mall’s photo shop. The adorable little girl, around two years old, smiles in black and white, on the beach, in her one-piece bathing suit, framed by pink, blue and white horses. They are all so beautiful, and if we had the money, I might want our own now. How does she do it on assistant’s pay? What does her husband do? I’m sure he’s not an actor.

It will have to wait as we figure it out. Although it feels like there’s an urgency to fix it now, I know that we are actually hyper-aware of the challenge to overcome the past. I lean back in the reclining desk chair, and take a breath. I have to trust that things will happen, and sleep through the night.

Now, excuse me while I internet surf at work.

Zip Line Monkey Boy

Gray clouds hover over Central Park to the northwest, sunbeams peak their way through, slicing the air into tasty bites of floating freedom. I want to pull a James Bond, and bust my way out of here, down a zip line of light, leaving this tower of banking terror behind. Reach the trees, bounce off the leaves, because they look soft, and hang like a monkey on a limb and eat spicy tuna hand rolls with my plush wife-monkey. Our fur isn’t itchy like a beard, so holding each other is like laying on a bear-skin rug, but we’re monkeys.

We’ll learn to use our tails and hang above park walkers, dropping acorns on their heads, watching them freak out at the size of those monkeys. That’s right, point and run away as we pelt you with natures weapon, and tasty seed. Yum. Crunchy.

We’ll elude the zookeepers and animal control, pulling a King Kong on Yoko Ono’s building, the Dakota, across the street from Strawberry Fields, only after dancing a jig with the local, ex-hippy, guitar resident, playing “A Little Help from My Friends.” Arm-in-arm, tail-in-tail, we’ll get tourists to pay the axe-man, theN flee to the heights of Yoko’s white sanctuary.

Our nimble fingers will unlock the windows, and we’ll climb in, ready to play a sonorous swing on the white piano. We like to swing. The pounding of animal angst will echo the hallowed halls of John Lennon, in our "Ode to Bread-making and House-Husbandry." Hopefully she’s not home, and we’ll go through her sunglasses collection, place Terminator-style shades on each of our flat faces, and walk out the front door. If she is home, we’ll leave her a script to read about spirit-swapping, and souls transgressing into other mammals. She’ll enjoy our swing in her reserved Japanese way, smiling behind her shades.

She’ll thank us, pleasantly, and we’ll bow, tails high, followed by our quiet and zippy exit down the private elevator. Slip past the doorman, after dropping a 20-spot, we like to tip, scratch my booty on the street, but dammit, I can’t get it. Agh! Can you get it, love? And my wife picks off a nasty little bugger of a flea, sniffs it, then eats it for a post-lunch snack. Tasty and symbiotic of you, dear. Thanks. Anytime, monkey-love.

With that, the clouds will part, and a shimmering sedan will lower it’s hermetically-sealed wing, and we’ll hitch a ride back to the loony planet of Jon on the 37th floor atop the investment banking corporation.

What the hell just happened? The jell-o in my neck hardens, and my eyes focus on the Nortel phone in front of me, screaming for an answer, flashing a caller’s name and a badge, credentials to boot, at me, the lowly temp.

I’m nothing but a guy who dreams of being a monkey on a sunbeam. Can’t even dream about flying or floating my way out of here, still hindered by Newtonian Law. Snap out of it! Free yourself, bound-boy. Unshackle the dream, and the reality will palate better.

Take a swig of Poland Springs water, masquerading in a Fiji bottle; refills are free. Rub my face and eyes with palms and fingers, filling each crevice of nose and eye sockets with a digit, while inhaling a cleansing breath.

Let it go.

I feel like a trained monkey, ready to dance for the peddling banker, organ grinder in hand, hanging over his billion-dollar account statement.

Maybe the corner of 57th and 5th is better. At least it’s not in a cubicle. Although the whole roof is a glass cube. Hope I don’t have to dance there. At least the other monkeys there dress like me, jeans and a T-shirt.

It could be worse. I could be a trained seal, paid in tuna.

Roll in the Dirt

So exhausted. I’m a good husband and waited up for the wifey to come home from a bachelorette party. Nothing like women and plastic, penis pacifiers masquerading as party favors. Oops, the secret is out.

Ok, the job that I was hoping for, and thought I didn’t get… I got. I’m proud of me, and so are the tiny sparrows that lie in the dirt of Bryant Park. Somehow, discussing my shift requirements and possible salary hike with the HR peeps, although nerve-racking – I’m usually a fairly composed person out in the world, but when it comes to this job I get like a 13-year-old talking to a girl for the first time – was massaged away by watching the little birds sit on green, park chairs, drop to the gravel pathway, and hop with other palm-sized, billowy buddies. It’s so Zen following these animals in their semi-natural state, a park within a city, taking me away from the horns, grumbling engines, sirens, and falling construction equipment booms. Although, those booms are pretty scary, and then I remember where I am. But then I look at the little, feathery cuties and I’m okay .

Look to the birds. Their little world, centered within landscaped shrubbery and fragrant flowers, stops time for me and reminds me that I’m a part of the big picture. Some big, ugly mug is out there in space and beyond time, looking at us little ants go, thinking, “they’re such little cuties. I just wanna squish ‘em all” . Some are squished and some squish themselves, but eventually the earth becomes re-landscaped by a passing contractor, a comet or meteor, and the little ant farm has to start from scratch. The roach farm will still be there though, but there not as cute as us.

Reading Ghostwritten by David Mitchell and watching Heroes last night got me thinking on the Universal level. Are we in control of our lives or are we pre-determined to be squished when crossing the street? Maybe both .

Sure, we all think that at one time or another, but I am the only one who has the answer. Just stare at a little birdie and you forget the question. I’m sure you can stare at a little baby too, which I’ve done recently with my niece, and that is the same feeling. She cried and cried and cried…at first. But then she got used to it. After that, I was infinite.

Ok, so there are a lot of different things you can do to forget the question. Go for a run, stare at the Grand Canyon, have sex, eat an egg pizza at Otto’s. All things, if they’re good, that help you to experience the moment and “forget about life for a while” [Billy Joel]. Maybe forgetting is the wrong word. That’s when you can simply be. I don’t know, sew a sweater, saw a branch, smell the breeze as the leaves fall and the chimneys light up.

All the things that you want, all the goals, the almost-haves, the weighing-you-downs, are keeping you almost squished all day long, which adds up to weeks, months, and years of squish, unless you push the squoosh away to freedom. Ah, freedom. Free as a bird on chair in the grass in Bryant Park in New York City. He doesn’t fly south for the winter, I’ve seen him, so is he free? Can he choose to leave or is he just a New Yorker who loves this city? Snowbirds with thick feathers can make it through the Arctic gusts along the Hudson, between the buildings, even as small as a sparrow.What if I choose to shoo him away? I, the outside, unforeseen force, affecting the sparrow’s life in a traumatic way. He doesn’t know why, he doesn’t understand how, and I’m sure it never becomes a question in his mind. But if it happened to you, you would surely ask why? Why? Why?

Birds don’t have it that good. They don’t own property, cars, insurance, Social Security, they don’t pay taxes for government programs and services. No stability, for that matter. Birdbrains rolling around in the gravel and dirt, that’s what they are. But Woodstock was a bird and a festival of love and muddied, dirty people rolling around. That was so fun they did it three times in 30 years.

This is going nowhere.

I felt remorse yesterday when I completed the novel, separation anxiety from Wife after quality time came to an end due to the work week, and emptiness from not having worked on that Monday. I feel hope for the new job and potential of a dream job.

Holding me back from writing more eloquently is feeling powerless and pointless in what I’m writing. Who’s going to read this? Can I really get paid to blog one day? How easy is it to set up a real blog, that looks nice? Find the best deal for web hosting, transfer the few blog entries, learn how to design the website, understand the software. All I want is for the writing to be read from a cool Domain name, not jonsalkin.com, in a community of writers.

If I keep writing, taking control of my actions, then one day, something beyond my control will take over and set me into motion. That’s what I was looking for in the bird. Something so fragile, yet in control of its life, up to a point. That’s what I am right now, fragile and rolling around in the dirt.

Ay, naku! Clear the head. Take a breath, or vice versa. Sanitize and soften my hands with Purell, just cause it’s there… and I can. Now I’m softer, and fragile-er. Look at the baby pictures of the women whose cubicle I’m covering. Funny looking kid. Attempt to close the imaginary door of the office behind me because I can hear every word of their phone call, which is drowning out my own, tired thoughts, not allowing them to surface.

“…this is how I recommend handling it… you and Mike make a phone call to the bankers and get it listed.. and whoever you decide, should be along for the whole ride, and it’s easy… bring ‘em along on this one… what he’s going to do is write a whole semi-conductor slant…this is the listing hedge clause… I wonder if we need to go to equity…”

Ay, the ringing in my ears, trying to gain control over the situation, as outside forces inflict their soundwaves upon me. Must overcome it. Must hop around the Great Garden and roll around in the dirt. Ah, yes… dirty.

Tale of the Review of the Daily Summation

I'm wondering if you always have to be suffering to be a good artist. I, actually, know the answer to this, but sometimes the question arises when I'm not creating. Usually I'm not creating when I'm enjoying my life, and enjoying one's life seems to get in the way of artistic creation. Even so, there's always the tug of “I”m not writing” when I'm enjoying, so I stop enjoying periodically until the writing has been achieved.

I've never published anything except this blog, but I consider myself a potential writer.

I'm making a choice now to diverge from simple, straigtforward blogging to a chosen topic under anonymous pretentions. Keep the name blog, jonsalkin.com for promoting me, but have a blog set up under a pseudonymn, without photos of self, purely devoted to writing.. That seems to be the way to go. Leave the photos for the actor-promotion.

Next: Osama may be dead... maybe not. Pakistani president Musharraff was interviewed on 60 minutes, but I wasn't listening as I read my email.

Closer to home: The wife and I re-organized the apartment, put up pictures, did laundry, and rested so nicely after long Manhattan commutes to the banking Bear. What a simple way to achieve peace. Clearing the cobwebs from the undusted soul, not to mention cleaning out one of my inbox's 200+ unread emails.

I'm making a decision to take a job that pays half of what I make now, but the potential with what I can learn is what draws me to the position. This company doesn't hire just anyone, and I have my foot in the door. If I'm going to go in the direction of survival jobs, this is the company I'd want to work for, having a basis in the creative and technical. I'm being vague, but it's a financial and spousal dilemma. The part-time hours will overlap the $20/hr corporate bank hours, taking away rent and bill payments. I'd work from 7/9pm to 2/3am, opposite of my wife's schedule.

A lot of negatives, but the potential of the job made me immediately say yes.

I hope it's the right decision. It'll be a struggle, unless we get our delayed tax refunds back soon. If that happens, at least we won't have to worry for a while, I can train, thrive, and impress and eventually get more money and better hours.

The script says, yes, I am willing to do it because I truly believe in the product and the company's philosophy. Funny what one has to do to get by.

The time will come when I get paid for passion, and that day will be soon...er or later.

Space and a Breath

Sometimes you need some space to breathe before you expel any expletives, or rather so something less vulgar will come out your mouth. That can go without saying, and when I’m saying nothing, something is building up and waiting to explode on the person next to me. Married people know the drill, or so I’ve been told. Spouse make good target. But not for the enlightened and able-minded, in control of their emotions and purveyors of bridled passion. Spouse make good sounding board and not emotional projectile receptor.

Maybe Iran needs some space to breathe, and for all better purposes, maybe we in the U.S. do too. And it looks like Pakistan might need a breather after letting the world know how close it was to being bombed "back into the Stone Age" by the U.S. Bush is "taken aback" by these comments, and denial isn't just a baby-floating river in Egypt.

One side is saying one thing but hearing something else, and because they heard something else, which so happens is interpreted as offensive, that side responds with a deliberate verbal attack, and, oh look, they just verbally attacked us! How dare they, when we were saying this, and ‘that’ is what we were trying to avoid, but they want to bring it up. Sheesh. And we don’t understand that what we’re saying is offensive, and the cycle continues, then escalates, and then there’s nuclear war. Problem solved, no one is saying anything now.

At least, that’s how emotionally unhealthy people attempt to communicate. I do that sometimes. I won’t see that what I’m saying or doing is pissing someone off and an argument ensues about one thing, when I was talking about another. But my point that I was so eloquently trying to make, no matter how valid, is now lost in the horrific display of miscommunication through a downward spiral of name-calling and feet-stomping.

That’s when I should look for space and breathe. That’s when the healthy people know to walk away and not say anything at all. But not everyone is healthy one hundred percent of the time, no matter how much progress one has made towards becoming stable human being. We’re only human, after all.

Not human enough, is not recognizing this about one’s own human nature. We’re going to get mad once in a while, and that’s normal. It’s what you do with it that counts. I like to smoosh it up into a little ball and throw it at oncoming traffic, preferably taxis who honk at walkers with the right of way. I also tend to be a forgivable arse to my wife. I’d like emphasize forgivable.

But that’s just me. Others like to hurl themselves into crowded shopping areas with dynamite duct-taped around their chest. To each their own. I guess it’s hard to really discuss anything when there’s the threat of weapons-grade uranium enrichment, suicide and roadside bombers, bus and train explosions, and exchanged rockets over borders by nation-sponsored terrorists. But who’s really listening when your ears a ringing. And who was the terrorist first?

Colonial revolutionaries having a Tea Party were terrorists. Arafat was once considered a terrorist, up until he won a Peace Prize. Funny how history re-writes itself, or time brings redemption. Copernicus was ridiculed and considered a blaspheme, but now he’s a visionary and pioneer. But he wasn’t blowing stuff up, though the Church might have liked to burn him up.

It’s all how you look at things. After seeing war for five years, maybe all parties involved, even the proximate observers with a stake, want peace. That’s what Bush and the Iranian president said this past week in interviews and speeches. Maybe they really want peace, and I hope they do. No matter how evil the other one says they are, humans all want peace and to be left alone. Hey, if it goes on long enough, and it’s still a stale mate, they may agree to disagree and go about their business.

The Crusades took a breath after centuries of civilizations clashing. Let’s hope, before the Pope puts his foot in his mouth again, that the War on Terror won’t become another Judeo-Christian-Islamic battleground lasting a millennium. Maybe it already is though, and we don’t know it yet. Give it a little space, take a breath, and who knows what history will call it?

Composure and Cube-haven

I’m here at the Apple store on 5th Ave and 57th St at the corner of Central Park in NYC. Ironic that the store that refused to offer me a job is my day’s sanctuary when my floating job leaves me high & dry. No work today. No money. Paid bills are like bad grenades, exploding on you when you least expect it. Then when you check your account after leaving the office building and find a couple more paid bills have gone through and you have nothing to live off of for the next two days until Payday because the Payroll department screwed up once again, and leave me hanging without two days pay yet again, then i begin to freak out a little bit and call up my other temp agency agitated and angered, powerless and attempting to regain control by asking for someone I know at the temp agency, and they’re in a meeting and i don’t know the name of anyone in the office anymore b/c i haven’t been there for months and months since i relocated to this internal office at the investment banking firm, and i have to give the receptionist a name otherwise she can’t help me, and i say i just want to talk to someone and she repeats herself and says she can put me into voice mail for the women that i asked for, but i don’t want voice mail, i want to talk to someone b/c it’s better to speak with someone and let the agents get to know you otherwise they forget you exist and never use you for any work and then you’re shit-out-of-luck again for this week’s bills and especially next week’s because you’re not getting paid for sitting in the temp office waiting for no work, so I exclaim, I want to speak to someone now, and the already agitated receptionist, who is obviously overwrought with other callers and a phone that never stops ringing gives the button a push and i’m sitting in silence.

Take a breath. I call back and ask to speak with someone and says she’ll transfer me to Val who’s in another office and she does, and i explain my story that i have executive assistant experience now, assisting investment bankers and lawyers that are Senior Managing Directors in multi-hundred-million dollar deals, I schedule meetings and travel, take their shit and smile and i’m looking for more work and i was working with ANgela for a while but, oh you’re working with Angela, i’ll transfer you to her line, but she wasn’t there, thank you too late, and Angela’s voice mail comes on and i explain myself again to the temp agency boss who knows me and will hopefully get me work for next week, otherwise my wife and i are screwed for rent.

So i stand in my corporate attire at 10:52 am surrounded by students, the unemployed, retirees and tourists at a common terminal, entering my life for the non public public to invade me freak-out, this is my freak out and i don’t mind leaving it out there. why not, it’s real, and once it’s written it becomes more real for the reader as if you’re in the writer’s head.

these crystalline white iMac computers, with everything contained within a stand up monitor, reflect back at me how i can’t afford you at home, but here on 5th avenue i can at least stand, hunched over, wrists gaining pre-carpeltunnel pain as gravity holds my wrists to the oversized oak table holding 10 computers around me. email and stock quotes are checked as a young black man blasts R&B or Beyonce from the mac along the wall, drowning out the iPod area of overlapping sounds and songs, a cacophony of commerce and technology overlapping with art and culture.

i love this glass cube of a store protruding from the street sidewalk, a 21st century landmark and haven for the weary dreamers and toy-seekers. i want a new iPod. i want a new computer. But i’ll settle for a free test drive on the mac heaven.

it all gets better i know that, and Bob Marley and internet radio overlap, and the man dances in front of the computer, checking is Yahoo account, swimming in an emptied Starbuck’s Large iced Americano. My former drink of choice in the Philippines after a night out until 6 am and a casting session the next day.

The man sings off-key to an R&B fave, and I wish i could be that care free, and maybe i will one day, b/c we have a plan. The plan will save us, the plan will eat at our pride but it will be worth it when we return triumphant and partially debt-free, the bad ones anyway. Leave the city of dreams to the Latin Riviera of topless models, dead fashion designers and a football team lost in their heyday of the 70’s and 80’s. Miami will heal us with family and the plan.

Fear has grown in me today and yesterday as Bush speaks to the UN General Assembly today, while Iran’s president resides in the same building, and i fear a car bomb, though i doubt it will happen, it’s just my imagination wondering if it could happen, and i know the dangers of this city of my dreams, and i’m willing to leave it for a time, and re-gain my composure to take it on again.

I laugh to myself as the black man sings Nickelback off-key, and I love that he knows every word. Something about rock and culture transcending racial stereotypes in my generation and lifetime. I still wish he’d change the internet channel, b/c his taste sucks.

i’ll just have to finish this up and take control, and leave this place on my own for some street silence and purposeful resolve to get through that moment and leave it at the store and in this mid-day September blog.

He's the Olber-Mann!

Four days after 9/11, Keith Olbermann’s address is still ringing in my ears. I was so blown away by the courage and conviction he put forth. His speech clearly represents an American voice that has finally been heard. I’m reminded of the Vietnam era, when criticizers of the war were told to “Love it or leave it.” And that’s precisely the kind of attitude that he's facing in this climate of war.

Before I utter my humble opinion, here are my disclaimers: I’m a moderate. Much of my knowledge of the Vietnam era is through the many movies made in the 70’s and 80’s, like many others in my generation (I’m 31) – although, I took a Vietnam history class in college. I’m not one to worship any human being, despite how much I agree with their ideas. I haven’t lost anyone close to me in 9/11 or the ongoing wars, although a close cousin was seconds away from riding the burning elevators in Tower One.

That said, I love Keith Olbermann now. Not like a lover, but like a fighter. A fighter for integrity in our presidency, demanding that Bush live up to his promises. I’m happy I read about Olbermann on a large-scale website like Yahoo! comparing him to Edward R. Murrow and his attack on Joseph McCarthy during his Communist witch hunt. I’m happy Olbermann is getting so much press. Of course, that’s to be expected when a liberal media sees one of their own attacking the Republican president. Hell, fine with me. I’m happy I saw him on the Today show yesterday morning, one of the biggest television platforms in the country, maybe the world, advertising to all to take a look at what he said on MSNBC.com.

Everyone should hear it. I feel hope in my heart, a warm and throbbing sensation, when I think about what he said. It feels like a turning point for me on a massive scale when it comes to criticizing the Bush administration and W in particular. All the politicizing and Machiavellian fear-mongering needs to be placed in check, and that’s why we have a free press as our fourth branch of government.

I want to rally around Olbermann, not the man, but the ideas. And maybe I don’t agree with everything he has said, although I probably do, but that’s not the point. There are ongoing wrong deeds that have been done, and so few out there have articulated as eloquently as Olbermann, how these wars came about and why there is still an emptiness in our hearts, as well as in lower Manhattan’s earth.

I’m scared every other day riding the subway into Manhattan (Mom, don’t read this), especially from where my wife and I live in Brooklyn. One of the more recently-publicized homegrown terrorists frequented an Islamic Center in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, a bomb’s throw away from our apartment. The fear disappears quickly when I think about the Russian mafia keeping our streets safe, but the state of our times is a reality worth remembering in the morning. We now carry flashlights in our bags in case an emergency happens while in one of the tunnels. It’s not like I carry a bomb-sniffing dog in there, a counter-terrorist Chihuahua in a Louis Vuitton canine-purse, but preparation for darkness is a safe touch. The fear leaves like a daily tally of things to do on my list – pay power bill, do laundry, worry about suicide bomber, recharge iPod – and we head to work like any other day, trying to make ends meet, and coming home still sane.

Although the effect of the War on Terror on my daily life is small, I would still like to feel a growing sense of hope, a tangible sense of progress towards a goal instead of this lost powerlessness when I think about our world and the hole in the ground. That’s why I love what Olbermann said. Stick it to the Man is as patriotic as flag-waiving and apple pie, so what’s wrong with a little direct confrontation of a president who has manipulated so many truths, mollifying us into compliance. It’s healthy, it’s natural, and it’s American.

Maybe I’m getting too political for someone trying to start an acting career. It’s better to save some mystery, and let audiences make up their minds for themselves. But I’m not famous yet, and I am an audience member not jumping a couch. One day someone will read this blog besides my wife and parents (I wonder who that will be) and my views may come to haunt me, but hey, opinions are like arses, and I have a plump and juicy one.

For now, I encourage more heartfelt annunciations of their own truths, and I look forward to the ripple effect of Keith Olbermann’s editorial. Let a unified understanding sweep over our country, and an empathetic ear listen to what is right. Rock on man-sticker!

Fake vs. Real - For the Naive and Easily-Hoodwinked

After a difficult week building up to 9/11 and everything surrounding the ongoing wars in Iraq, Afghanistan and the global War on Terror, it’s a sharp contrast to read about the light deception that has bamboozled the general YouTube population of viewers.

“Lonelygirl15 is a FAKE.”

These words have rung out beyond the vast webscape of isolated computer geeks, techno newbies, and porn-seekers, into the valleys of Hollywood and the potential market of web drama. The summer soap of a would-be 15 year old and her buddy Danielbeast, suffering from a teen’s syndrome of unrequited love, drew hundreds of thousands of viewers weekly, waiting for the next installment of underage self-disclosure, in the form of a video blog.

I admit it. I was suckered in for a couple of weeks. I first discovered it with my wife while browsing the many “Most Viewed” videos regularly uploaded to the free video site, while trying to upload my own video/demo reel. It’s our new model of home entertainment and multi-tasking, that I’m sure is pretty common these days; TV on, sometimes music too, and laptop for alternate viewing pleasure. So my wife said it was time I put my own video out there, which I did, with the hopes of high view count, and potential employers beating down my door to host their TV show. Little did I know that the Tube waves were monopolized by one popular lonely girl.

But I uploaded it anyway, despite my no frills approach, with little hype, except for an email blast of my entire address book. I wanted all the buzz of Lonelygirl and thought of possibly casting a pretty young starlet to play myself. My wife disagreed. She actually said we should create our own fake parody of the young pair and their pseudo-confessionals. Oh, how prophetic she was.

Being that Jessica Rose is the actress that plays Lonelygirl15, this first-wave materialization of a soap opera blog has killed the model for “is it real or fake?” the way The Blair Witch Project killed it 7 years ago. And it’s dead before it even hit the mainstream population. It’s been done, the hype will always be questioned, so what form of hype will be next? Sure there’ll always be young, naïve entertainees out there waiting to be duped, in the next incarnation of fake vs. real version 29, but all my belief in the internet is gone. If you can’t believe in blogs, what can you believe in? Maybe I’ll turn to our politicians.

Crossing the line between reality and fiction seems to be the ongoing theme these days in all forms of media, a la James Frey’s much-Oprah-ed (it is now a verb, folks, right here, first), fictionalized memoir, A Million Little Pieces, creating so much buzz-turned-controversy. Are we all a little too naïve to even go out in the world anymore? If we’re not safe in our own homes surfing the internet, reading a book, or watching a movie, where can we be safe?

Although, according to the vast amounts of comments regarding the Lonelygirl out-ing, many of the viewers doubted the authenticity from the beginning. But what about me and my trusting nature. Those producers have executed on me confidence-theivery. I want to wash it all away. Wash the dirty, grimy trickery from my computer screen and look at safe and predictable, virus-laden porn like the old days of internet yore. But then I have to face whether or not those girls flaunt breasts of fake or real. Agh! I’ve been lonelygirled and I feel out of control. The only way to bring the control back, to gain a little perspective from it all, is to, wait it’s coming to me, yes… turn off the computer…turn off the TV… get out of my pajamas and go for a walk out in the ever-fabled world. Maybe a little fresh air, a gentle stroll and, quite possibly, get a life of my own. Ah, yes, that feels better. I'm not living in my mother's basement and I actually have a woman. Life is real again.

Remember and Build On It

After working my paid standby position - waiting until 10am to see if the company will use me as a temp for the day, then leaving promptly from the building at 10am – I spent the day wandering the streets of New York, but not aimlessly. Julie suggested I go to Ground Zero and pay my respects, so with nothing but a rolling backpack and a half-smile – half happy from not working, Yay, and not making money, Boo - I headed down Fifth Avenue.

Coming from 47th Street, I imagined where the Towers used to be visible, all the way downtown. The Twins and the Empire State Building used to be my compass. I’d walk 20 minutes to school from Port Authority, green to New York in ’98, cross Fifth Avenue at around 30th Street, look up to see the Empire State, remembering my dreams and why I was here in New York, then look down Fifth to see the World Trade. That was my daily ritual and reminder. That’s why I chose Fifth Avenue, to remember.

Crossing 34th Street I looked up in awe of the tallest building in New York, the Empire State. As I watched a distant plane shining amid clear blue, my fears grabbed hold and I envisioned that plane drawing the same fate upon our remaining landmark. I shook it out of my head, literally shaking the horrible thought out, as it disappeared behind the building.

Keep walking, past the sample-sale shopping, past the Flatiron building, through more shopping a block over from Union Square, and down to Washington Square Park. Washington’s Arch, viewed from the north, used to frame the Twins when standing below its vaulting marble archway. All I could see now was the crystalline glass of Seven World Trade Center, newly rebuilt, and one of the taller structures surrounding the empty hole.

Past the students, past the speed-chess players and grizzly men selling weed – they don’t approach me like they used to, decked out in my corporate-wear – Fifth becomes Thompson and I walk below the trees, using Seven World Trade as compass to navigate.It feels like a neighborhood now, void of shopping, and lined with bohemian restaurants and the academic bars of NYU. A block down to the right, West 3rd Street is barricaded off to traffic, but not pedestrians. Groups of men in their dress blue uniforms and caps, gathered in front of Fire Patrol House #2 on between Thompson and Sullivan Streets. An elderly women in a light blue dress, with white embroidery, held flowers and a solemn face. Conversations flowed from the street into the fire house, as they held their own private memorial for their fallen brothers. A sign posted in front urged passersby to contact your local councilperson to help keep this fire patrol house from officially closing its doors on October 15th. Their website outlines the details: http://www.fpny123.net/.

I pause to reflect, and continue walking. These are real people with real lives, who were affected by an attack on our country, casualties of war, in the first battle of the 21st century. The affects are still felt here in this neighborhood street five years later. On Sullivan, I lose sight of Seven, but lead myself to Tribeca, finding Varick, then Hudson. Chambers lets me know that I’m close, and I turn right to the West Side Highway, looking left to see my first view of pilgrims and mourners. I feel the weight in my chest grow. I’ve been here every year since the attacks, but today feels different.

I follow flag holders, people in black “Investigate 9/11” t-shirts, uniformed police, and tourists in sunglasses, carrying cameras towards the pedestrian bridge, south along West Street. Approaching, I hear echoed names of the deceased being read off by family members, each set of names punctuated by personal pleas to their loved ones. I take the escalator up onto the bridge, crossing West Street along Vesey, and seeing the voices’ origins. Squeezing between others witnesses, I catch a glimpse of the multitudes of uniformed officers, firefighters and their family members, in a procession down the great ramp onto the dirt of Ground Zero.

The night before, President and Laura Bush placed wreaths in a pool at the footprint of Tower 1, now overflowing with flowers from the procession. I look around me on the bridge, and head down stairs for a better view. Telephoto lenses of roving press and regular photographers alike, line the stairway. Is this obscene? Last time I was here, without a ceremony going on, it felt disrespectful that so many tourists were taking pictures of this giant gravesite. But this is history today. I and everyone else there are witness to a remembrance of five years ago.

It has been five years. It’s hard to believe. I wasn’t even here. I’ve faced that guilt each year, that I wasn’t here when it happened. My New York, my home, and I wasn’t here. Not that I could have stopped them, nor do I have any EMT skills, but just to be here while my dear home suffered so much… I’ve never quite forgiven myself. Over time, Julie and I have shared these same feelings, not that it compares to the survivors’ guilt of the many firefighters being honored today. But over five years, we’ve come to realize that maybe we were fortunate by not witnessing first-hand, the terrible devastation. Insulated by distance and TV-filtered coverage, we could merely tour the aftermath, and delve within ourselves to make sense of it all.

Watching all the news coverage leading up to this year’s anniversary, seeing the children of 9/11 loss, and how they’ve coped without fathers and mothers, they speak of being lucky. Lucky to be alive, lucky at having known their families, and if they can feel lucky, then it’s okay to put things behind.

I pull out my cell phone camera, and I take a picture for my future children. I want them to know that I was there, a part of history, and I want to teach them about our times. That’s what shifts in me, and I continue across to Church Street. The name reading ends, and at the entrance to the PATH station, the true public event is taking place. Silent protesters, camera crews, people holding flowers, Iraqi vets, all nationalities, all cultures, with and without cameras stand without a view of the bottom, and listen to the official choir of the ceremony, filling the air with “Raise You Up.” Tears form in my eyes. Once a kitschy song to me by Josh Groban, in this context, I feel the need for purity and a straightforward, uplifting message through music. It’s followed by a lone trumpet’s rendition of “Taps.” Once again, movies have worn it down and I normally am not moved by this overplayed fixture of a dramatic mechanism, but in this moment, when the song suits its true purpose, solemn remembrance of the dead, I am stricken by more tears.

I follow the fence barrier. I hear deep, individual rings, and see three giant bells lining Liberty Street. Below each suspended bell are the names of those lost. People walk up, read the names, tug a thick rope attached to the clapper, and release. A man gives a short silent prayer, pulls the rope, rings the bell, and repeats three times. Three friends that he knew, and I decide not to take a picture of him. I regret raising my camera-phone. That was his moment, and I almost violated it.

It feels like all these people are violating this private moment of mourning for the families and friends, but this was a public event. It didn’t just happen to the 3,000, it happened to our country, and as countrymen and women, we can publicly mourn for their loss. And the mood around is not all mourning. There’s anger and confrontation between protesters and so-called patriots. There is a war going on because of this place, so people try to redirect their pain. And there are shoppers heading to Century 21, “New York’s best kept secret”, according to the building-wide banner topping the retailer’s façade.

A male news reporter fixes his wind-tossed hair, like a Pantene commercial, makes a joke about it, and I see his glowing ego shimmering in his pretty, brown hair. In his vantage point, sits a blue monster truck, at least two feet off the ground, bedecked in American flags, stickers, firefighter license plates, and magnets reading “We will never forget.” I can’t help but chuckle at the sight, and somehow it seems okay here since it’s owned by a firefighter. Why not be patriotic like that? It’s a nice contrast, but surprising to see in New York and not in some muddy, Southern pasture for off-road muddin’.

Along Liberty in the other direction, I continue circling the site, and I’m met by a collection of dress blues, followed by what seems to be the procession, entering from a gated area that leads from the Ground below. The procession converges on the newly rebuilt fire house of Engine 10, Ladder 10, and I finish my lap of the Hallowed Ground, by entering the World Financial Center. Inside the air-conditioned building, windows overlook the east, so I sit and take in everything, wanting to leave, but feeling the need to look, and look some more. I have an insatiable appetite for imagining the events, viewing the people, scrutinizing the remaining rock walls, holding back the Hudson from flooding the earth, and wanting to head home for comfort and rest. It no longer looks like devastation, as they repeatedly showed us on TV leading up to this day. It has a fully constructed PATH train to Jersey, a below ground facility for train entrance, and a clean dirt floor and walls. It will be rebuilt, and New York will be renewed.

I came here to remember and, also, to see the progress. I want the tallest building in the world back in our borders. I want the dream of New York back, as I enter the City from across the Hudson River, with Lower Manhattan bookmarked by the Freedom Tower. I want glowing glass, and human-lit sky to bare the torch of liberty, along Liberty Street. I want the Memorial built, and the dirt floor to be covered with man-made heights and accomplishments. Five years have gone by, and it feels like it’s time to move on, not just as myself, the individual, but as a unit, a whole, a City that deserves to be great again. That is what this day means to me, not like last year, not like four years ago, but what this present day means now.