the lineup

For those curious, the list of authors for Cyan Publishing’s upcoming Best Web Writing anthology:

I’m still talking with three other writers, who I hope to rope in by the end of the week; that should bring the total count up to 30. (A brief side note: there are many, many other great writers online, many of whom I read regularly. To get to these thirty, we started with a list of nearly 100 sites, which was narrowed down by the book’s editorial panel. I really, totally, sincerely and completely hope nobody is offended by their name not appearing here; any such authors should simply write it off as my and the panel’s inability to recognize true genius even when it’s staring us in the face.)

At this point, I’m collecting a list of solid posts from each author, which the ed. panel will be narrowing down to the final assortment of pieces. So, if you read any of these sites regularly and care to recommend anything they’ve written that’s particularly stellar, I’d greatly appreciate your shooting me an email.

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grammar lessons

Last night, I sat in with a great jazz combo playing at Ye Olde Tripple Inn, a bar a few blocks from where I live. The gig went well, and most of the group was exceedingly complementary – to their ears, I was told, I sounded like the re-embodied ghost of Woody Shaw. The bass player, however, knew otherwise – I could see it in his eyes. He was the only one who could tell I wasn’t playing complex harmonic ideas because I was intentionally sidestepping, substituting tritones, and building upper structure triads. I was playing complex harmonic ideas because I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.

For me, playing jazz is a bit like speaking French. Which is to say, I can’t actually speak any French at all. But I do have a remarkably good ear for accents*, and can pretend to speak French well enough to not only convince non-speakers I’m fluent, but even to convince those who’ve studied the language for a few years (apparently under the belief that I speak so fluently they just can’t keep up).

To be fair, the analogy between jazz and French isn’t precise; while both follow formal grammars, language conveys precise meaning in a way music is rarely meant to. So, at a certain level, sounding like you can play jazz and actually being able to play jazz are the very same thing. It is, after all, an aural tradition.

And, in fact, I do know the grammar of jazz. It’s just that I know it only academically, intellectually, rather than having the myriad chords and scales and all their variants seamlessly enough under my fingers to play them through without conscious thought. So, under the heat of the moment, as tunes fly by, I fall back on my ear, on simply playing what sounds right.

Hence my new resolution: going forward, I’ll be working hard to bring my academic jazz theory up to practical jazz theory. Running patterns again and again to ingrain the harmonies deep enough in my subconscious that, when, as I do now, I let whatever music is in my head push through the bell of my horn, it pushes through in a form that’s, jazz-wise, unimpeachably grammatically correct.

Until then, though, I’ll be faking it by ear and heart. Unless I’m looking to impress last night’s bass player (or any of the other small handful of extremely well trained listeners who can actually tell the difference), that seems to be good enough.

*side story: While underage, I drank for years on an Australian fake ID, managing a 100% success rate (even in front of Australian bartenders) in passing both my accent and the ID off as the genuine article.

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freeloading the big apple

As Times columnist Charlie LeDuff famously observed, “New York is a lot like a shit sandwich. The more bread you have, the less shit you taste.” Sadly, with the cost of city living perpetually on the rise, that observation holds now more than ever. Which isn’t to say, however, that our fair city can only be enjoyed with a wad of $100’s in your back pocket. With a bit of ingenuity, and a willingness to depend on the proverbial kindness of strangers, anyone can live the good life in New York for essentially no money at all. ‘How?’, I hear you ask. Read on.

Step 1. Eating

Your first stop: high end grocers. The Amish Market, Whole Foods, the Chelsea Market – any of these is packed with enough free samples to make a meal. The secret to avoiding incurring the wrath of salespeople is to look genuinely intent on shopping. Carry a basket. Put things in. Eat some free samples. Take things out. Head back for more free samples. Voila.

Of course, sometimes even the cheapest of individuals feels the need to sit down for a meal. That’s where churches and synagogues come into play. Nearly all are brimming with lunch discussions and potluck dinners. Proselytizing and pizza. Can’t stomach the holier-than-thou moral integrity these people beam as you take their food? Head over to a twelve step program meeting instead. Plenty to eat, and certainly nobody ready to judge.

Once the weather warms, you can also pop into Central Park looking for barbecues. With a big drunken crowd of revelers, nobody’s going to stop the one guy they don’t completely recognize in line for a burger.

Bonus tip: looking for dessert? Ten cents will buy you a cone at your neighborhood ice cream store. Then simply request a taste spoonful of all 31 flavors. Compacted together, those little bits easily add up to one (deliciously free) full scoop.

Step 2. Drinking

Of course, real New Yorkers know that food stands well behind drink in the order of life, so you’ll be pleased to hear that unpaid liquor flows freely throughout the city. Start the evening at a Chelsea gallery opening. Wander around, glass in hand, squinting thoughtfully at the carefully framed spray-painted sweat socks and the like. If a salesperson stops next to you, look slightly towards them, shake your head slightly, and say something like “intriguing…” That should buy you plenty of time to grab another glass.

If you’re a mid-day drinker (or, as we in the know say, alcoholic), kill pre-gallery time at open houses. Scour the Times for any residence listed for more than $2M, then dress the part and bring a date. Free drinks (and, likely, freshly baked banana bread, to scent the house with domesticity) are yours for the taking.

Like to smoke when you drink? Well then Mayor Bloomberg’s done you a world of good. No longer able to smoke comfortably indoors, a crowd of addicts has doubtless packed near the doors of whichever establishment you’re frequenting. The brotherhood of nicotine, strengthened through months of such enforced outdoors huddling, means you can bum away with reckless abandon.

Step 3. Staying Fit

All that free food and liquor gone straight to your hips? Don’t worry friend, because fitness can be had on the cheap in NYC as well. Your first path: trial memberships. Every gym in the city offers them, from one week spans all the way up to a free test month. With over 400 ‘health clubs’ listed in the phone book, by skipping from gym to gym, you can stay fit well into old age.

But let’s say you’re the trendier sort, perhaps looking to do a bit of soul-soothing Yoga (to balance out the karmic wrongs engendered by all your freeloading). No problem! Just head onto Friendster (you knew it had to be useful for something) and search for the word yoga. There’s at least a 50% chance that any females living in Williamsburg whose names pop up are instructors-in-training, looking to log teaching hours. Free private instruction, yours for the taking.

Step 4. Entertainment

Feeling fit, feted and faded from the past three steps, you’re now doubtless looking for a bit of fun. Fret not, as New York is known around the globe for its excellent theater, attracting uneducated yokels the world over to things their simple minds couldn’t possibly comprehend. This month, head over to the American Airlines theater about an hour after the crowds first file in, and you’ll doubtless find a hearty Midwestern couple jumping ship at the first intermission, muttering about why this Pinter fellow can’t seem to just tell a story. Ask them for their tickets, and as your daily good deed, point them to their hotel two blocks up Time Square, lest they wander all the way down to TriBeCa before realizing they don’t have a clue where they are. Don’t worry about the missed first half; most playwrights save the best for last anyway.

Looking for lighter fare? Loiter outside the city’s larger movie theaters, looking for women in their early twenties wielding clipboards. They’re recruiting for test screenings (a misnomer, as distributors really couldn’t care less what you think) for pre-release films. Sure, there’s a better than 50% chance whatever you end up seeing will star Ashton Kutcher, but it’s free, free, free!

Step 5. Edification

Feeling a bit punk’d by your film, you’d best set out to feed your brain. Head over to Barnes & Nobles, which I encourage you to view as your free lending library of brand spankin’ new books (with only small deposit required). In short, buy a book or two that seem interesting. Read them on your own time. Come back several weeks later and say, “I read these two books; they were quite good. But now I’d like to abuse your overly generous return policy to trade them in for two others.” Repeat ad infinitum.

If timelier information is what you seek, head down to your neighborhood coffee shop, on weekdays after 11:00am, or weekends after 1:00pm. Copies of the city’s countless newspapers doubtless lay strewn on the floor. With a bit of search, you might even find one in which the crossword puzzle hasn’t already been partially filled in (erroneously, of course, and in ink).

Step 6. Utilities

Tired out, it’s time to head home. Sadly, no tips on how to go rent free, as that pesky landlord fellow seems to get a bit snippy if you try. And don’t even bother trying to stay with friends – New Yorkers have a nose for the sort of houseguest likely to overstay their welcome. You won’t make it past the buzzer should you hit their front door with bags in tow.

Utilities, however, are a bit more flexible, at least so long as you’re willing to whine your way to success. Free phone minutes, months of cable service, they’re all yours to be had if you can put the fear of you leaving for a competitor into their customer service rep’s mind. Complain, complain, complain. If you’re a real New Yorker, it should come easily.

Step 7. Style

Caught yourself in the mirror while wheedling your cell phone company and realized your look’s way out, did you? Then it’s time for a bit of discount store arbitrage. Pop into Syms or Century 21 and stock up on discounted designer couture. Then train on out to the Nordstrom’s at the Short Hills Mall, which sports a return policy even more generous than the Barnes & Noble kindness you previously abused. Enough cycles, and you’ve pocketed enough money to make the eventual purchase (from the initial discount store, naturally) more than pay for itself.

All dolled up, your unkempt ‘do likely looks out of place. Happily for you, New York is full of hairdressing schools looking for victims, er, volunteers to help students hone their scissor skills. Still, word is out and New Yorkers are broke, so waiting lists have begun to spring up at most such establishments. If your mane begins to look too shaggy to weather the wait, I’ve also heard excellent things a
bout the trainees at either of the city’s fine dog grooming academies.

Postlogue
So, there you have it. With no money down, this little beauty of a city can be yours, all yours. Or course, at some point you’ll likely realize that all the time spent trying to live on the cheap could instead be channeled more effectively towards such fruitful pursuits as, say, looking for a job, or marrying an investment banker. Even then, only enough scrill to swim through (a la Scrooge McDuck) will lift you into the holy grail of New York High Society. Think Eyes Wide Shut, though with women WASPy enough to write thank you notes.

[Word to Yoav “King of Cheap” Fisher, who helped brainstorm this piece while brewing coffee late yesterday evening.]

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minor disaster

This coming Sunday, we’re screening I Love Your Work at the Tribeca Grand for a New York filmmakers group. The Grand’s screening room is only set up to use DVDs, a format to which we’ve yet to convert the film. We have copies on analog film, as a High Definition D-5 master, on VHS and on DigiBeta. Or, rather, had the film on DigiBeta; now, nobody seems to know exactly where the tape of the film in that format is. Which is problematic, as it’s the only one from which we can easily burn a DVD. As a result, my colleagues, our film lab, and our sales rep are all running around like chickens with their heads cut off, trying to track down the DigiBeta in time to cut the DVD for Sunday’s showing. I’m trying to coordinate it all from Denver by cell, silently chanting my Cyan mantra: filmmaking is fun, filmaking is fun…

Update: DigiBeta has been found. Now I just need to find a way to get it DVD-ified overnight.

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thoughts from denver, part 1

-The students at the University of Denver take working out very, very seriously. It seems to be the campus religion. Consequently, the main topic of discussion on campus is currently: guys shaving their chests – still Abercrombie cool or sooo 2003?
-Second to working out appears to be cars. To DU students, what you drive and how much you’ve tweaked your rig are incredibly central aspects of who you are. DU students drive everywhere – I’ve seen students who live a few blocks off campus drive to class, parking their cars further from the classroom then they would have been had they just walked from home.
-Still, as drunk driving can be hazardous to your vehicle, the students are willing to walk to bars. Or, rather, bar, as there appears to be only one immediately adjacent to campus. The Border, a quintessential over-packed collegiate dive bar, is inevitably the final evening stop, no matter where else people have gone that evening, nor how drunkenly they’re forced to stagger down the street to get there. Once they arrive, however, my brother and his friends immediately fall into Border ritual: swaying unsteadily in the long line outside, complaining bitterly about the $2 cover, elbowing their way to the bar for a watery Red Bull and vodka, making one or two laps around the bar (stopping occasionally to hug girls whose names they’re no longer sure of), then proclaiming the completely packed scene “totally broke”, and heading home no more than twenty minutes after they came in the door.
-I am exceedingly dubious of sushi in landlocked states.

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on the road, again

I’ll be up in about four hours to head off to Denver for a slew of investor meetings. No rest for the wicked.

Actually, I had originally intended to make tonight an early evening, but instead ended up heading off to an audition of sorts for a fairly recently formed jam band. The group sounded remarkably good playing through a handful of Rolling Stones and Zeppelin tunes, as well as a few originals, and though my chops were certainly not at their best, I still had a remarkably good time letting loose and blowing through some rock solos – something, having recently focused in on classical and small combo jazz playing, I hadn’t done for much too long.

Oh, and continuing the theme of happy serendipities: the group’s sax player was one of the talented two from the tragically poor jazz rehearsal I’d been hired in to play two weeks back.

None the less, as Denver trips are always rich blog fodder, I’m sure I’ll have plenty to post about over the next few days. Stay tuned.

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helpful housemate

As I staggered in the door of my apartment last night, my housemate Colin asked if I wanted to join him and the group of eight Swedish ballerinas who were for some reason drinking in our living room.

That would be a yes.

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close shave

Yesterday evening, with my brother in town for one final night, I signed us both up last-minute for a wine tasting class at the Institute of Culinary Education. Getting ready to head out the door to the class, I grabbed my trusty beard trimmer from the bathroom cabinet for a bi-weekly touch up. Passing the trimmer over my chin, I seemed to be shearing off more than usual. “Odd,” I thought. “Perhaps my beard grows faster in the spring.” Looking at the trimmer more closely, however, I realized the longer cuttings weren’t a result of speedy growth; instead, the trimmer was apparently set at the very closest setting.

“Oh,” said my brother from the other room at the sound of the trimmer. “I was playing with that this morning. You might want to adjust it back to the normal setting before you use it.” A little late for that. I now had a mangy looking beardless patch below the left side of my mouth.

“It probably isn’t even noticeable,” my brother said from down the hallway, before turning into the bathroom, getting a closer look, and dissolving into hysterical laughter on the floor. Apparently 95% of a beard doesn’t quite cut it. So, already slightly late to leave for the wine tasting, I quickly checked the trimmer was still on setting one (a.k.a. ‘fragrance model perpetual five-o’clock shadow’), and sheared away.

As a result, I’m back to beardless. Or, at least, nearly so. And while I’m almost certainly growing it back, I can’t say I entirely minded the chance to compare, in close succession, the bearded versus unbearded versions of my face. Change can be good. Albeit, occasionally, rather unexpected.

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spiderman, spiderman

Yesterday, I headed over to Paragon Sports, New York’s finest sporting goods store, to buy a new rock climbing harness. Which, in my mind, was money very well spent. Sure, in lots of sports, ailing equipment can limit the quality of your game – a dented bat, for example, can drop yards and yards from your best home run swing. But in climbing, as in very few other sports, equipment reaching the end of its life can rather quickly have you reaching the end of your own. Not relishing the idea of plummeting to my death, making sure my safety equipment is in prime form always strikes me as well worth the time and money.

Hence heading to Paragon to buy a new harness. Based on how and where I climb, with the help of the salesman I narrowed my choices down to two main contenders: the Petzl Calidris and the Black Diamond Focus. As both would cover the full range of situations where I hope to use the harness, the decision was mainly one of comfort. How would they feel after a day of wear? I strapped on both pairs in turns over my jeans trying to judge, but the fit of a harness when walking around is vastly different from the fit of that same harness after it stops a fifteen foot fall. The wedgie (or worse, ‘melvin’) potential is hard to explain to those who’ve never felt the effects of a bad harness first hand. In my case, let’s just say that a borrowed harness once left me hoping I’d still be able to have kids.

So, wanting to avoid purchasing such a harness myself, I asked the salesman if there was anywhere I could actually test out the fit by hanging. Indeed, it turned out, there was a rope attached to the store’s ceiling for just such a purpose, though, oddly, it was nowhere near the climbing department, nor even near hiking and mountaineering in general, but rather hidden in a distant section full of backpacks and book bags.

Clearly, few people had actually used this test rope, and for good reason, as it ended about six feet above the ground, making clipping on the crotch-level harness a rather onerous task. I had to climb the rope, arm over arm, then hold myself up with one hand while clipping in with the other. Unattaching to switch harnesses required the same process made even more difficult in reverse, and going back and forth several times between the two certainly provided my workout for the day. Waking up this morning, my back and biceps were sore to the point of painful.

Still, the effort was well worth it, as, when hanging in them, the Petzl turned out to be vastly more comfortable than the Black Diamond, making the choice easy. Plus, as an added bonus, it’s hard to overestimate the joy of swinging, Tarzan-like, over the heads of shocked and unsuspecting little kids shopping for backpacks.

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