Worth a Thousand

On Thursday afternoon a friend posted an old photo from college to his Facebook page.  The scads of comments that unspooled fast and furious for well over an hour were bananas!  And more a tangential memory jog than at all relating to the actual photo.  It became a miniature online reunion.  Swept up in this little nostalgia fest, more folks seemed to dig out their old shots and put them up.  Meaning most had to scan them in (or had already scanned them at some point).  For you see, back when we were in college, pay attention now kids, all our cameras required film.  Then that film had to be taken to be developed.  We might as well have been drawing our likenesses on a cave wall with the burnt end of a stick.  It seems that primitive now.

One of our favorite games was to go on little photo jaunts, staging impromptu shoots around town late at night.  Often with wardrobe changes!  Once, we invaded the Orlando International Airport around midnight, and took pictures on the baggage carousel, the people mover-y sidewalks, and on and around the godawful “public art” that littered the place.  It seems inconceivable now. We’d be hauled into some windowless, cramped, florescent-lit  Homeland Security office the moment we traipsed through the doors with our weird outfits and conspicuous behavior.  Hello, cavity search.

Now whenever you go out, everyone acts like the lay paparazzi of their own lives, with their digital cameras and cell phones:  incessantly snapping pictures at every bar, club or birthday party.  Every moment captured and subsequently blogged or Tumblred or Flickred, or yes, Facebooked.  Though this isn’t a screed against the ease and proliferation of images in this digital age.  I mean, we had our own instant gratification, it was called Polaroid.  So.  I suppose it’s an appreciation that these images endure, in whatever form, and can act as such a powerful catalyst to reminiscence.

Above is one of my favorite shots, taken outside a 7-11 (mmm, Slurpees!) on one of our photo outings in downtown Orlando.

Rich Eyes and Poor Hands

So, I’ve returned from my sojourn. How was it you ask? Well, I didn’t remember to write down the really funny things and forgot my camera at the most opportune moments. Story of my life. Still, I’ll try to hit the highlights in a stream-of-consciousness manner.

At the end of our performance of Twelfth Night, one of the actors proposed to his girlfriend. In front of the audience. Everyone teared up. Nothing makes theatre look more fakey than a genuine show of emotion. Thanks for upstaging the rest of us with your heartfelt, sincere speech, John.

While I was able to detox from the internets and email for the most part, there were a few things that could not be avoided. Mostly funny videos which we watched while drinking until the wee hours. Like Elijah Wood showing us his “dancey dance” the Puppetmaster on Yo Gabba Gabba! Also funny: Charlie the Unicorn and the trailer for Rambo IV (unintentional hilarity). For those that like a dose of the surreal, check out Strindberg & Helium. Best of all, watching a near-the-end-of-his-life Orson Welles shill for Paul Masson wine. Seriously, they should show this to first year acting students as a cautionary tale. “We will sell no wine before it’s time.” The best is the video reenactment of Welles’ famous voice-over meltdown for Findus Foods. “What is it you want, in the depths of your ignorance. What is it you want.” Imminently quotable.

The flight from Albany to L.A., with our brief layover in Baltimore, was hideous. We left the house at 3AM, with most of us (save for Dan, who drove us, and had the patience of a saint) still drunk. The second car we took almost ran out of gas. In the middle of nowhere. Like, seriously, neon-sign vacant motor lodge, dark scary forest, no cars on the highway, hook on the door, ghost of a hitchhiker nowhere. We finally had to pull over at the Highway Patrol station and inquire where the nearest gas station was. Seamus thought it would be funny every time we pulled next to the other car to flick them off. It wasn’t. He also thought it was a good idea to bring some drinks in the car, road beers as it were. When Dan opened the trunk to get our bags out at the airport, one came crashing down on the pavement, prompting him to throw up his hands and scream “Who thought this was a good idea!” Best airport announcement: “Paging King Stinkem.”

Airport part two: We were flying Southwest. Seamus apparently didn’t like that airline, and announced as much, at the top of his lungs, in a running monologue. I believe he called it the “Greyhound of the sky.” Our connecting flight was full, “137 seats, 137 passengers” the flight attendant gleefully told us. Before taking off, the female flight attendant announced that there was someone on board with a peanut allergy, and thus this was a no peanut flight. Groans of annoyance and confusion issued forth. A few minutes later, she came back on to say that she was mistaken about the allergic passenger. “I looked at the wrong roster. My bad.” They never served peanuts, so the point was moot either way.

Los Angeles was in the middle of a heatwave when we arrived. It was 100+ degrees.

Like most visits to the left coat I spent the bulk of my time driving around and eating. That’s what one does. Drive around and eat.

On the second day in L.A., I tried to take a nice walk around Echo Park, the neighborhood where I was staying, but the heatwave hadn’t dissipated. Nobody walks in L.A.? True.

Nobody takes the bus in L.A. either, apparently. After visiting the Getty Center, the nice docent in the parking lot sent me on a bass ackwards loop around the city. I should have gone east, but instead went south and west. I ended up at the Santa Monica Pier.

Mandi, my host, introduced me to Richard (brother of Danny) Elfman’s The Forbidden Zone. Why had I never seen this movie? It’s worth it for Herve Villechaize alone! Rent it. Now!

I saw both a coyote and a hummingbird, though not at the same time.

Every single one of my friends asked me when I was moving there. Do Angelinos get a tax break or a gift certificate or something if they get a friend to move? I don’t understand.

I dressed like a clown and danced on stage for a Rosh Hashanah rave at the Henry Fonda Theater. Full story tk, maybe. Suffice it to say, it was maybe the oddest experience of the trip.

Everyone was super nice about driving my ass around. Especially Mandi, who also let me crash on her couch. I got to spend quality time with everyone and their pets. Seriously, everyone has a dog. Or two.

Now, I’m home and it’s muggy and rainy. Why did I have to come back again? Oh, right. I’m broke.

Quoth the Bard: “A traveller! By my faith, you have great reason to be sad: I fear you have sold your own lands to see other men’s; then, to have seen much and to have nothing, is to have rich eyes and poor hands.”
–William Shakespeare, As You Like It

Talking in L.A.

I overheard the following verbatim exchange while enjoying an iced coffee at Chango in Echo Park:

Girl 1: So, you woke up this morning?

Girl 2: (without a hint of sarcasm or irony) Yeah. Obviously.

And that was on my first day in Los Angeles! People on the west coast are so refreshing!

I Wish To Go To the Festival

I spent Sunday at Figment on Governors Island. The festival was billed as sort of a mini-Burning Man East; I was curious but wary, fearing it would be less the drug-enhanced bacchanal of the aforementioned desert festival and more like a Renaissance Faire, or what old folks used to call a “happening.” I also feared I’d be subjected to the two words in the English language which fill me with a queasy rage: drum circle. But since it was my last opportunity to spend anytime outdoors before the oppressive heatwave arrived, I chanced it.

My fears were partially confirmed when I was greeted at the ferry slip to by a fey lad on stilts twirling a hula hoop over his head, prancing up and down the long queue and attempting to keep the crowd jolly until the next boat arrived. Also, I was caught in line behind Lady Crazyeyes, dressed in top hat and green tulle. The email I received encouraged people to dress up, but I wasn’t about to don face paint and feathers in this weather. Plus, I didn’t have any drugs. The only thing I was putting on was sunscreen.

After a protracted wait in the heat, where at one point a woman passed out on the sidewalk and was treated by paramedics, the line begin to move onto the slip to board the ferry. At the security checkpoint, where I was holding out my bag for inspection, a nasty little gay and his companion came out of nowhere, pretended to glance at the pamphlets on the table, then cut the line. That didn’t strike me as keeping in the spirit of Figment.

I jostled to the prow of the ferry, only to be sandwiched between a few hyperactive kids and a trio of Wonder Women (well, two girls sort of dressed like Wonder Woman, and one Wonder, er, Dude).

Disembarking, we were greeted by a ringmaster of sorts, also on stilts and with a megaphone, welcoming us to this his utopia. He chastened those of us not in costume, and we were also encouraged to take a photo with the Merlion (don’t ask).

The bulk of Figment was situated in Nolan Park, in the central part of the island. There were installations, including a rocking horse made of metal and old tire treads, along with some games, more hula hoops, and bubbles, naturally. There were teams assembling for a game of “countersquirt”– which sounded like a combination of capture the flag with squirt guns. A DJ collective had set up residence, and a few people had gotten into the spirit of the day, strutting and preening in homemade costumes. The bulk of the attendees, families, were splayed out on picnic blankets, enjoying the warmth and relative tranquility. As I feared, nestled in one corner of the park, was the Society for Creative Anachronism– a medieval re-creation group. They had an arena set up where they demonstrated “medieval heavy combat,” which basically meant dressing in armor and whacking the shit out of each other. While passing a picnic table I was approached to participate in a game.

“What kind of game?”

It was something that involve various “challenges.” I begged off, not wanting to feel challenged, and decided to explore the island. I was already feeling an art attack coming on.

Several of the old houses were open to visitors so I strolled through, then around the perimeter of the island. It’s nice to come to Governors Island for something like Figment, I suppose, but its real appeal is its emptiness, its unsullied, meditative character.

Eventually, I made my way back to the festival, passing the crowd of white kids doing African dance, and plopped down in the shade to listen a jazz band. By this point I was feeling tired and just the slightest bit heat stroke-y, and it was in my best interests to leave the island and Figment behind. Next time, I’ll bring my drugs.