Like most twenty-somethings, in the couple of years post-college I occasionally considered the idea of grad school. Then, one day, it occurred to me that the only part of school I really missed was the late-summer school supply buying spree.
So, each year since, at the end of August, I trek over to Staples and shop till I drop. It may not yield a degree, but a bag full of new highlighters and three-ring binders is close enough for me.
About a year back, I was struck by the idea of walking Manhattan from tip to tip. Foolishly, I shared this with my long-standing friend Jenny, who liked the concept enough to actually agree to do it with me.
The trip is 13.4 miles as the crow flies, and closer to 15 along any walkable route, which should have led either of us to conclude that’s more than anyone is meant to walk in an afternoon. But, as Jenny recently won the New Jersey marathon, she’s clearly missing the part of her brain that tells her to stop after hoofing some reasonable distance. In my case, I have no other defense than that I’m a complete idiot.
So, yesterday, just before noon, we headed up the 1/9 subway line to the 215th Street stop. Yes, the 215th Street stop. Apparently, Manhattan has lots and lots of streets. And nearly a third of them are below Houston, once you run out of numbered ones.
Nonetheless, we subwayed up, and we started walking back down. At first it was along streets like Nagle and Isham that I’d never even heard of before, much less realized were major thoroughfares on this island where I live. In upper Inwood, the Siberia of Manhattan, we passed stores selling live chickens, and stopped to use the bathroom at a McDonalds where I was nearly unable to purchase bottled water, seeing how none of the people behind the counter spoke English.
We trekked through Washington Heights and saw adds for sodas (Energy 69!) that absolutely don’t exist below 125th St, and arrays of dresses on sale in front of small shops for under five bucks a piece. Then down through Harlem, where we passed McDonalds and Papa Johns’ on every other corner, trekking all the way to Morningside Heights and the top of Columbia before we spotted our first Starbucks or sushi joint.
By the time we’d made it to the Upper West Side, we were less than halfway, and already looking rough. The day was overcast and muggy, we had sweated through our clothing, and we were possibly hungry, though too churned up from constant walking to want to actually eat.
Near the Museum of Natural History, we stopped in at my brother’s apartment, where he handed off a pair of rum and Cokes like Gatorade passed to long distance runners.
A bit further still, at Columbus Circle, we decided maybe eating wasn’t such a bad idea after all. So, we stopped at Bouchon Bakery in Time Warner Center, relishing the sitting even more than the first-class eats.
In Hell’s Kitchen, I stopped to lance the blisters that had formed on the back of both of my feet, and to drop off an apparently unneeded, but somewhat pokey, umbrella hauled in my backpack. And then we got back on the road.
It was at about this time that I started trying to pansy out. I had several good ideas, such as subwaying down to the next-to-last stop then walking the final stretch. Or calling it for the day and picking up the second half of the trek on a subsequent weekend. Both, I reckoned, qualifying as tip-to-tip travel, at least with explanatory footnote.
But, Jenny, being far more used to motoring mechanically through such minor problems as excruciating knee pain, kept us moving ahead. By this point, clearly neither of us were enjoying the walking, though we had reached a point of sufficient delirium that we were still happily laughing through it, talking loudly about people we passed and wondering what they might be making of our bedraggled, foot-shuffling duo.
We walked through Chelsea, the West Village, SoHo, and TriBeCa, though by that point my recollections are largely a blur. I do recall stopping at a firehouse, ostensibly to get an estimate of remaining distance, though mainly so Jenny could put the moves on a cute firefighter.
We kept walking. Down past Ground Zero, through the financial district, and, limpingly out to South Ferry. By 6:15, we stood looking at the Statue of Liberty, wondering why we didn’t feel accomplished and elated so much as in need of somewhere flat to lie down.
The South Ferry stop on the 1/9 was closed. So, one foot placed gingerly in front of another, we walked back up a bit, staggering down into the Whitehall subway station, then slumping into the seats of an uptown R train.
Back at the top of Times Square, I saw Jenny off on her ride further uptown, headed home, showered, then went back out the door. And while dinner at Blue Smoke and drinks at Pete’s Tavern were both excellent, it’s nearly a miracle I made it ambulatorily from one to the other.
This morning, scuttling plans for vacuuming on the grounds that it involved even small amounts of moving around my apartment, I instead searched online to price out Rascal and Jazzy scooters. If I ever walk again, it will be too soon.
Congratulations to my brother, who this afternoon hooked a high-level position at a boutique real estate development company that will now be paying him far better than I pay myself.
I’m taking him out for a celebratory dinner. And then putting it on his tab.
First, there’s the issue of side. Which, if I’m sleeping alone, is the left. But I’m flexible on that one. Either side of the bed works well enough for me, making the choice an easy first concession.
Then there’s pillow selection, which I’ll also happily give up, for the good karma, and the illusion of being accommodating.
The trouble sets in with sleep position. Left to my own devices, I’m largely a stomach sleeper, with occasional side forays. Most girls, however, seem to covet the shoulder/neck nook as pillow, which necessitates back-sleeping. Or, rather, back-not-sleeping. Because, as comfortable as the position actually turns out to be, I can’t really sleep in it. Spooning’s a bit better, though I’m never quite sure where to keep my bottom arm.
Sooner or later, it’s some slightly separated yet leg-intertwined position. Which works well for the most part. Except that a surprisingly large percentage of girls seem to kick involuntarily while deep in REM. Some, the former soccer or field-hockey players the worst amongst them, kick hard. All deny it once awake.
And, of course, all girls steal the blankets, somnolently bunching comforters with reckless disregard for their co-coveree.
A large percentage, too, are total insomniacs. Or, perhaps, just a large percentage of the ones I like, given my prodigious ability to develop crushes on smart yet totally neurotic girls. They can’t fall asleep. They toss and turn. They wake up in the middle of the night, then wake me up to announce that they’re awake. Or they steal my computer and respond to their work emails from three until four in the morning. Or they do both. The same girl, night to night, is utterly unpredictable.
Or, at least, seems so at first. But, inevitably, there’s (some) method to the madness. Which is what bed-sharing – and, perhaps, relationships in general – is really all about: spending enough time with someone to figure out their idiosyncrasies, to determine how those line up with your own, then compromising, practicing. All in the name of somehow finding that comfortable, sustainable, “I could sleep like this for the long-haul” groove.
Heading Home
With a touch of Hawaiian sunburn, some significant progress on Cyan’s C round from the prior week, and a bad case of jet lag (to be reinforced tomorrow on my second 3000 mile leg from San Francisco), I’m headed back to New York City to resume the daily pace of my crazy life.
These few days of tropical ‘vacation’ were much needed, though also a good reminder that, at my age, most people only head to Maui’s Wailea coast on honeymoon – attractive women and giant diamonds therefore spotted in precisely equal count.
More exciting, however, is the coming-shortly first set of theatrical returns from our ongoing Oh in Ohio release. Having sunk my personal savings into pushing Cyan ahead, and having similarly deferred salary for months to ensure sufficient dollars in the bank to underwrite the film’s national marketing campaign, I’m thrilled to see the bets and sacrifices paying off, and the accompanying additional few zeroes added to the end of my bank balance.
Money may not, as they say, buy happiness, but the chronic lack of it is a serious pain in the ass.
People often ask me whether writing so publicly about my alcoholic adventures and dating debauchery ever causes problems. My answer: of course.
Observe, for example, this rather gracious email I received last night, in reference to a segment of the inaugural F. Scott & Friends Bourbon and Brylcreem Hour podcast, from a friend of my younger brother whom Sarah and I had discussed on-air the likelihood of my drunkenly sleeping with:
Um, dare I say ìwell done?î I listened long enough to hear the bit about my dimple and how I am apparently going to get angry after we drunkenly sleep together. OH, josh. Weíll blame it on the bourbon (not us sleeping together ó your podcast). Its no wonder Dave insisted I check it out.
For the record, I know what the hell a pod cast [sic] is, too.
Hope all is well. We all need to go drink/sing/not fuck real soon.
[name redacted]
In San Francisco, wrangling investors for Cyan’s C Round of financing; off Friday to Maui for a much-needed mini-vacation; back in NYC Tuesday evening. As ever, erratic postings along the way.
As I know a lot of would-be filmmakers read this site, wanted to quickly post an internship opportunity at This is That, an excellent production company here in New York. Definitely worth applying for any NYC producers-in-the-making:
This is That Corporation (producer of ETERNAL SUNSHINE OF THE SPOTLESS MIND and 21 GRAMS) is seeking a business/marketing oriented individual to support its film fund team. Strong communication skills a must. Responsibilities will be mostly administrative, including sending marketing materials to and keeping track of communication process with potential investors. This position is unpaid, but offers great exposure to the film producing environment, and opportunity to learn about the film industry and film financing in particular.
September start date. Flexible schedule, but prefer individual who can work at least 2-3 days per week.
If interested, please send resume to ggasst@gotofilmfund.com
About a year back, I discovered that a flask of rum makes in-flight coke, and in-flight experiences in general, far more pleasant. Which is why, with six flights on my horizon in the next two weeks, I’m particularly displeased to discover TSA’s newest terrorist-thwarting rule:
NO LIQUIDS OR GELS OF ANY KIND CAN BE CARRIED ON THE AIRCRAFT [Ed. note: capitalization theirs.]
The unfortunate sobriety leaves me doubly exposed to my recent and ever-growing flight anxiety, which I previously described thusly:
Having logged enough miles to know first-hand the odds of safely reaching my destination, I should be a calm, collected flier. Instead, I’m increasingly phobic, knowing too well each expected whirr and beep: altitude markers, well-adjusted ailerons, fully-engaged landing gear. During a flight, at least a quarter of my brain is consumed with monitoring such sounds. Was that clang right? And, if not, have the flight attendants huddled in back for last tearful goodbyes?
And now, with bombs apparently ready to take (commercial) flight, at least another quarter of my brain will be spent rationalizing away this second in-air threat.
Bon voyage, indeed.
One big disadvantage of having my younger brother here in New York is that we often work out together. Which, in some ways, is an advantage – working out with someone else always being more fun than working out alone. The problems set in when we start competing with each other. Because, after twenty-some years of practice, the two of us have honed to an art the act of pushing far more than we sanely should, just to edge the other out.
This was made particularly clear yesterday, when the CrossFit Workout of the Day called for maximum weight deadlift attempts. [A deadlift, for those not familiar, essentially involves picking a weighted barbell up off the ground, then putting it back down again. Cf.]
So, we started with the bar and a 45 pound plate on either side, and proceeded to pile on additional weight after each attempt. There’s a point somewhere after adding two such forty-five pound plates on each side that, as you stand up, the metal barbell visibly bends. And, it was about at that point that other people nearby began to stop their own workouts, gathering to watch us go back and forth, back and forth, each time adding more and more weight to the bar.
In the end, as he does about half the time these days, my brother edged me out, though not before we had well crossed the 300 pound mark. But, today, we’re both the losers. I, for example, am typing this standing, because my legs are far too sore for me to lower myself into the chair.
They say love hurts; apparently, that’s doubly true for the brotherly sort.