Remembering

I walked out for coffee early this morning and nodded towards my building's Super who was sitting on the stoop smoking what was probably his 6th cigarette of the day. It had been hours since I had seen him last...

Yesterday was Gay Pride Sunday, the final day of a week filled with activities, all which culminate in an parade sponsored by Heritage of Pride. These days it begins on Fifth Avenue at 52nd Street and proceeds south to 8th Street where it continues towards the west side of Manhattan. At Sixth Avenue, the parade veers northwest on Greenwich Avenue for one block then heads southwest through the West Village on Christopher Street. Halfway down the street towards the infamous Stonewall Inn (where all this began), is my street, Waverly Place.

This was to be my first Pride Parade at this address and I was committed to not miss it for anything. Even the Super, along with his wife and two kids, was hitting it big, though his intentions were purely monetary. Apparently, every year he and his homies from the lower (east side) sell waters for a buck. This year was an expanded version of that: a cook - said wide - would also sell skewers; young artists - said kids - would sell painted 'I Love New York' MTA maps; and a driver - said homies - would replenish the goods with a van that only the Super knew how to scheme in and out of the neighborhood throughout the day. By 10AM the 4-foot gay flag was out, by noon the music was pumping from the van, as if to signal, "The BBQ is on!"

At 1:30, when the parade was in full swing, the police had already fined him $250, the selling was off and the invitations had extended beyond close friends. What else was he to do with all that product, I suppose was the thought. The block party, sponsored by our building, was on.

Back to the magnificent parade, the forecast had kept the swelling of the street down to 2 or 3-people deep at most by our building which is around the corner from madness so it was manageable. Calling Waverly home base was literally a blessed affair. Though the view from the roof was fabulous (see above), downstairs was fun and we got it all in. The most memorable moment is a 2PM Silence - the moment along the parade route where everyone recognizes those who have died of AIDS with complete and ominous silence. It is the highlight of that event, my reason for being there, and brings on a tear every year. THIS is what my generation should count on this thing being all about. Recognition is a wonderful thing, but continuing that on with resolution is where the meaning of it all comes for those next in line.

The Super's party went on in the streets as long as the sun was out, and then for some time it continued on the roof. Nothing rained on this parade except more freedom to shine.

Similar to the police sweep over Bourbon Street the midnight after Mardi Gras, fireworks over a Pride Dance that is organized every year on a pier along the Hudson River bring the Heritage of Pride festivities to a close every year. This year, I'd finished before they had begun. I took a Sunday afternoon nap on the couch, in front of a setting sun on what was a gorgeous day. I was awoken by the thunder of the light show over the Pier Dance. The show was beautiful and much fuller than I've seen in years, surely better than the times I've seen them on that over-crowded pier. After the final thunder, it couldn't have been more than 10 minutes before I was cuddled into bed asleep.

This morning, I woke up like any Monday morning when the boss is in town and bounced out the door before 8AM. There he was... hours since I'd seen him last. I looked at my Super and smiled, "We survived." He grinned at me and nodded in agreement with a light chuckle as he watched me bounce away.

And then the day went on...

About 13 hours later, I walked up Waverly from the subway ride home from work and noticed my the building's Super on the stoop smoking a cigarette. I imagined, with so little that gets done in general, that he could have conceivably just sat there all day. "And there's the day," I said to him as he grinned at me and nodded in agreement with a light chuckle.

Transportation Alternatives

It's bold and it's on view through the current celebration in my life, SUMMER2008.

Danish-Icelandic Olafur Elliason's Waterfalls, four large man-made falls temporarily installed in the East River and New York Harbor, started running today and I got my first glimpse crossing the bridge this morning on my way to work. Every photograph online and in print has been showing off gorgeous points of view, but honestly I was disatisfied with what I saw from the B train during this morning's commute. Fortunately, this map is available from the fabulously green folks at Transportation Alternatives. Even more fortunate is the fact that I now have a bike to play with close by.

It all seems a touch unnecessary these days in New York, which has seen rain storms every day for about three weeks straight. Can't complain, it's all quite beautiful around here. I've taken the official 2008 bike map of New York City and begun to highlight the routes I've taken. The plan is to cover as much of the route as possible before the end of the season. How far can I get? 20%? 40%?... 2%?

Olafur reafirmed my belief in contemporary art, or maybe it was MoMA and its retrospective of the man's work over the last 10 years. Some of it was dynamite (a cube made of smoke and lights; a waterfall of mist and lights; a cylindrical room with translucent walls that swayed colors as quickly as moods; a bright orange hallway that literally turned everything - and everyone - black and white. And that was just at MoMA. Over in Queens at the sister venue, PS1, one could find Olafur's smaller works: geometric sculptures made of everything from cardboard to paper mache; series of photography arranged to celebrate diversity in nature; patterns and shapes selectively appearing on walls; and the original upside down waterfalls that the world saw years ago in Germany.

Supposedly, a circular pond 135 feet in diameter with an island in its center started taking shape in March at Bard College in Annandale-on-Hudson, N.Y. Called “The Parliament of Reality,” the pond is to be the first permanent public installation in the United States by the Icelandic artist. It was expected to be completed in June and so now with my trip coming up next week, I’m excited to see for myself whether the rumors are true. I've read nothing else about this since the Times announcement in January.

So at some point this summer, I'll take the bike path offered as a delightful transportation alternative to the ferry that can take you around for $47. Then, there's the walk I plan to do down the water, and perhaps make my own path. Through the summer, I intend to catch those falls over and over again.

The sun's coming out, better head out myself. Where's my bike... where's my map?

Solstice2008 1.0

The Summer Solstice, the longest day of the year, which normally falls somewhere on the 21st of June, this time falls on my most celebrated day - today. Awed by the great power of the sun, civilizations in the northern areas have for centuries celebrated the Summer Solstice, otherwise known as Midsummer (see Shakespeare), the Christian St. John's Day, or the Wiccan Litha. Pagans called the Midsummer moon the "Honey Moon" for the mead made from fermented honey that was part of wedding ceremonies performed at the Summer Solstice. At the time the sun passes the equator this year, I plan to be crossing the Manhattan bridge on my bike - for the first time ever - onto the island I now call home. The bike has been sitting in the basement at my office in Brooklyn (the borough in which I lived for three years before last November) just waiting for me to take on that bridge. I've been stalling, winter was the excuse for awhile, but today is the day.

Every year on this date, mostly on paper since before the advent of personal computers, I have reflected on my own through a series of written journals, all of which I still have.

When I was 14, I started to diligently work on two journals: one of personal thoughts which dealt with all of my hopes, issues and expectations from adolescence through adulthood (the written word of my life's passings and goings, which comprised of 9 books over the years, turned digital in 2002 and is now simply in the form of this blog); the other of a series of fictional stories - some based on real people in my life - separated into weekly chapters and ideas that were combined to create a fictional season (which led to four fully-coordinated fictional seasons as high school progressed) of an imaginary television station in my mind: WNET Channel 4. I can now see that this is where my screenwriting style of storytelling came to be (that and from the one television in the household that lived in my bedroom, which mom and I sat in front of throughout said childhood).

I'm an only child, raised by a single mother who worked hard to secure her own American dream after emigrating from Mexico for an education and a better life in Chicago. I lived a very sheltered inner-city life as a youngster, commuting every day to the Chicago suburbs for school. When High School came around, mom had her job transfer us to Cleveland (a city where she had been seeing someone during her years of work travel and had gotten to know well). My eighth grade graduating class in Desplaines, IL had 16 kids in it. Freshman year at LHS put me amongst 650 other kids, all of which came from 3 separate middle schools in the area. Everyone had a friend (or 10) in every class. I took to writing.

The first week of freshman year, as I was purchasing supplies for the semester, I made one of the most significant purchases of my life. It was a grey spiral-bound notebook that was divided into squares to be used as a class planner. Each set of open pages contained six boxes across and five boxes down, 30 boxes total per week, and enough pages for 30 weeks. Across the top was a section for class names, along the left side was a section for the days of the week. A brilliant possibility came over me, as I tried to focus tons of ideas that were swirling in my head as the new, lonely kid on the block. I bought an extra planner and changed its purpose. Across the top, I placed times (8:00pm, 8:30pm, 9:00pm... through 10:30pm) and down the side were the days (Monday-Friday). I started every September, a ritual I adored, by deciding what the stories (series) of the year would be. Some were 30 minute sketch comedies, formulas I adapted from shows I was familiar with on television at the time. Other "serials" were laid out for one-hour blocks, which meant I was given two blocks to summarize the details of the drama. Each serial had major and minor characters, each character had their own backstory and each relationship was either volatile or necessary in the continued continuity which became the arc of the story. In the notebook, every scene was described in short, separated by dark lines which were meant to be station breaks.

As the "seasons" progressed, I formulated the serials to grow and build, storylines would form in my head and I would enjoy the magic of having complete control of my characters and how (or if) they progressed through the year. I spent most of my time in my mind, making sure the summaries could actually fit in the time alloted. Every December and every May brought on heavy cliffhangers. I'd take the summers off and then continue where I left off, dropping some comedies along the way and creating new ones to take their place, and always keeping track of where the plot lines of the serials were headed. By Junior year, I began to focus on the end game, the finales which had to come. I knew i was in over my head with some of the stories, but they had to have conclusions and I wanted them to be perfect.

Junior year in Lakewood was also the year of Physics, not one of my best subjects but certainly one of my most memorable experiences. The teacher, Mark Wisniewski (Mr. W), had two crazy quirks about him: he had a Christmas tree farm in Pennsylvania which he cared for and loved to talk about, and he had a fascination with the changing of the seasons. Every September 21, December 20 and March 21 he would bring grape juice and cookies into his classes and give his speech on the sun before we all raised our cups and toasted that sun to welcome in a new season. If the official change of season happened to fall at the time of your class (which it did for us one season that year), we were granted sandwiches and a full on party for the entire period. It was a ritual I would never forget. At the end of the year, his last bit of advise to us was to remember to raise our glasses on June 20 or 21 (depending on when the summer solstice fell). That was advise I would also never forget, being as June 20 also happened to be the annual celebration of my birth.

Mr. W was an amazing teacher. He was quirky but sensible, silly but honest, playful beyond belief but with a determination and expectation for hard work. He taught me to believe in myself. I showed him my "television schedule" that spring, I remember it was about 4 weeks out from "Finale Week". He told me two things: don't get too carried away for nothing, and don't ever stop writing.

This year's summer solstice happens on June 20, 2008 at 7:59 PM EDT. I'll have a juice bottle with me as I begin the trek across the Manhattan bridge this evening and will raise it to Mr. W and the many worlds I built in those planners so many years ago. Then, I plan to go home, open them up and spend the weekend formulating several "reunion specials". I left two blank pages in the "last season"'s booklet for that very purpose. 15 years later, the time may finally have arrived.

YYZ

Being stuck at the airport on the last leg of 5 months of business travel can be as exhausting as thinking the next trip is right around the corner. So here I am, having accomplished a lot with work I love and enough with family I must endure, and yet still not enough with others as hoped. I'm happy I came to Toronto (both times) this round and happier to be finally getting home for the summer.
The last time I was in Toronto was July 1994 with my best friend from high school and by best friend from college thus far. It was the summer after my freshman year, the first of which I spent at The Ohio State University. We drove up after semester finals to see Pink Floyd's final tour (again).

This time around, 14 years later, I got to a Blue Jays game (they were trampled by the Cubs 8-1 but it was cool being back in the old Skydome) and remembered the last time I was engulfed in that sound system. Every angle of what is now Rogers Centre, as I set out to prove this time, has great sound, the dome is well equipped. But it's no classic ballpark, no Wrigley, Fenway, Yankees, Dodgers. There were more Cubs fans there (and surrounding me here at the airport in fact, they too stuck and just hoping to get home). We're watching the U.S. Open, the Tony's are starting, the Lakers are winning their final game at home this season, lots happening.

Still here, still waiting for a flight. How much bullshit can I peruse on the www before I just slam the screen shut? It's raining and raining and the rain just won't stop. Pearson airport is no JFK, though you can't blame it for Sunday night schedules (Admirals Club closed at 6:30p!?!)

I flew in to JFK once through the classic TWA/Terminal 5, that gorgeous beauty designed by Eero Saarinen, pictured above. What a gem of a structure.

Unfortunately, I'm headed to LGA, which really has but one merit: Metrocard service home. There's a JFK flight, not on that, ahead of ours and it doesn't look like either is leaving anytime soon... neither is that flight to Chicago with all the Cubs fans. What's for dinner?? Last chance before the universe around us shuts down on a Sunday night.

YYZ has its merits. Let's give it up for those Torontonians and their speedy Customs process, gateway to the US by way of enough US agents to fill a commuter jet. Could they really commute like that to work every day? Government jobs are hardly worth extreme commuting, I gather.

Amsterdam's airport and entrance to their train system was pretty insane, like an indoor mall I couldn't quite grasp. The language was just far enough from comprehension to confuse, but boy are those dutch so sweet-looking; enough to want to pinch!

Acapulco's airport was my childhood gateway to Fantasy Island. The immediate heatwave, the staircase off the plane and onto buses, then trucked in through customs with loved ones and peace (only if you're under 14) just on the other side. Lately, it has gotten so big and upgraded, like all the cute small ones I also remember (MDW, ISL). But I have the memories, that's what carries me.

I've just been bumped onto the JFK flight, lovely, and we've been cleared to board and depart. Headed home

TIME

Happy moments like what I found here from artist Edward Monkton are what life is sometimes all about. The idea behind iGoogle stemmed from the idea that themes would change as the day progressed. This theme came to me because I'm obsessed with iGoogle to the point of addiction, seeing what new daily option I'm given as a home page with its 'Theme of the Day' mode selected... why pick one when you can have a taste of it all?? This is just plain fun! The idea of Artists Themes was just another example of the genius of Google, and the world benefits with countless options. To show off the new themes, Google threw this launch party in the Meatpacking District. For three nights, the corner of Gavensvort and Little West 12th (so different now than the seedy days of just 5 years ago) was transformed into an outdoor gallery of sorts.

I have little time on my hands sometimes, and the internet (being the part of my life it is) begins each time with an iGoogle home page which contains the news feeds I've selected from various websites. The design of the page is derived from artist themes; artists from all forms of creativity. They are fun above all the immeditate information I receive with a homepage, but the themes can send you anywhere, even to the genius of an artist.

I've digressed of course, but just take a look for yourself if you haven't already heard the word.

I was recently presented with a situation:
Fight for a project and deal with less-than-ideal circumstances or let the project go away. Time would be the variable on the table, time to rest, though it was time to work, like a flight attendant being asked to do "just one more run".

When time is not enough, it's best to just step back and take more time to figure the rest out. That may not make sense to some, but it realy works. And since it, managing time with multiple projects usually at a head at one time, is what I do for a living and I think I've gotten quite good at it, I'll simply say that it's all possible, and one - okay, me - should not jump too far as to overreach... the ledge might be farther still than ever anticipated.

I spent a few hours talking to my mother tonight. The first call was automatically interrupted by my Treo and the called drop as a notice appeared on the screen: Maximum call time reached, 99.3 minutes. I chuckled. I'd normally make a point to turn such a mode off, but this time I found it amusing. I'd just gotten into a most-heated conversation about estranged sides of her (and mine by a generation) family; her "family business" as how it is referred. And boy has she got almost 60 years worth of it, even farther as grandma's stories are somehow juicier. Family Business, there's the title of that book. Digressing again, but juice can be so tasty...

So there I was, on the 2nd call of two, this one close to 30 minutes, and I realized I'd taken the two precious hours for something worth a lifetime of peace. We hadn't caught up in a long ime, and family is, within limits as she's taight me, worth time.

As for my situation of "project or no project"? I went for it. Family busines may have taught me to list first, think second and tread slowly, but life is teaching me how to finish thoroughly. Precious and delicate, time truly is a part of the essence of balance.

B&B horrors

TORONTO, CANADA

This will never be a forum of negativity, but sometimes its best to air frustrations for the mere sake of setting straight facts that may to some seem too unreal to believe.

All I needed today was peace and quiet. I came to Toronto to do an overnight shift this week and today's day at this crazy B&B was to rest. My hosts, whoever the hell they think they are for trying to run this operation with such few amenities (you have to ask for towels?) I walked in from my overnight at around 1030am, exhausted. I went up and they knew the sleep I was needing. One hour later, I hear a creep in my room. It was one of my hosts peeking through drawers. The previous guest in this room (who'd by this point had checked out at least 24 hours ago and was now travelling) had realized they'd left their purse in a drawer and I, in that time, had not yet discovered it. So there she was, and continued to go though things until I finally peeked my head out of the covers. She gasped! Apologies at this point don't matter, I just held my head in awe. She explained the situation, I had to stop her from going through drawers I was using. She finally found it, more apologies, and left saying she'd knocked twice and thought I'd gone out for breakfast.
I blamed Canada, then just got over it and passed out.

This was at 1130am, right as she was just getting started with the chores for the day which seemed to all be situated directly above me. B&Bs are lively midday, I forgot. I realized four hours later, having truly slept for about three, that a new guest was arriving. My goodness, someone made the WRONG decision to put me here on my schedule. In the name of all things holy...

She truly took me there, made me feel like Bob Geldoff in The Wall, over the edge and simply unwilling to deal. This couldn't possibly me part of my ultimate tour experience.

Shows start tomorrow, my new photography exhibition on Mark Morris's L'Allegro is up at the Four Seasons for the legth of the festival, I've eaten well this evening and all is good. Tonight I rest well.

Internets

I received this from a friend of mine today. She's such a doll to think of me LOL

Here at JFK with some time to check into the internets before departure. This country is fucked (jee, i hope not!) so I'm trotting aboot to Toronto where, you know, it's a happy place, eh?

There 'till next Tuesday, weekend with cousin and her new wife (as of May, they visited us and took my washer/dryer back home in March). First, tonight, I hang the new photo show I made for Seattle (which never got the time it deserved on the walls, that's another story) at the Four Seasons Hotel in Toronto. No, they're not putting me up there, also another story. Instead, I have been placed in, what I first was hating, a B&B which I hear happens to be precisely on the corner of ground zero for Gay Toronto. Let's see how things work out. I have an estranged side of the family I've planned to reunite with by bringing them to the show on Sunday, but it seems that play may go astray (family can be a challenge). Saturday is the girls' night to see the program. Friday is opening night, followed by a mega-party at the Royal Museum for the festival's opening. Summer cocktail attire, how fun.
By then I'll have a photo exhibit as part of Luminato Festival 2008.

Ah yes... internets. (A friend) uses that word whenever possible as ridicule for our loser-prez, I see it as a way to protest. When speaking of the internets, whenever possible I shall use his word, and ferociously go under quick verbal attack of the lame-brain lame duck, until he walks out of that White House and goes back to the ranch where he belongs. I can only hope you all where right (O v. H)

Here's to January 2009.

When Less is More

Ludwig Mies Van de Rohe was a gem among rocks in an architectural world of Chicago that influenced many of the reasons why I still today always look up when walking the canyons of any major city. He died 10 years before the Pritzker Prize was established. His "less is more" ideals were perfection in a world obsessed with the lavish and obstrusive details that were popping up everywhere in the 60s. His 'God is in the details' was never more present than in his fabulous Federal Plaza in Chicago, which I've walked though thousands upon thousands of times during my youth; his gorgeous Seagram Building, which is the epitomy of classic NYC; and the perfect Toronto-Dominion Centre in Canada, which I will be visiting this week during my trip up to the land of Loonies and Toonies as part of the Luminato Festival.

Mies ranks as one of the most notable architects of the 20th century. With his highly developed sense of classical proportion, appreciation of modern structure and materials, and keen sense of craftsmanship, he created buildings that provided a new style for the 20th century, one that reshaped architecture following World War II. The street in front of Chicago's Museum of Contemporary Art, near Mies' former residence, is named in honor of the architect.

The thru-way between Mies, my God of all architects, and "the rest" comes with Philip Johnson, who started the Architecture Dept. at MoMA and had a major stake in the development of Lincoln Center in the mid-60s. He planned Mies' first visit to the U.S. and assisted him in the creation of Mies' lone NY skyscraper, the gorgeous Seagram Building, which houses the awesome Four Seasons restaurant (add Rothko to that list of fabulousness and you have a hotbed of NYC history and a whole lotta story.)

The Pritzker Architecture Prize was established in 1979 to honor annually a living architect whose built work demonstrates a combination of those qualities of talent, vision and commitment, which has produced consistent and significant contributions to humanity and the built environment through the art of architecture. Many notables are on the list of Laureates for the famed prize, some of my favorites in the field (having created some of my favorite buildings to date): Philip Johnson (NYState Theater, Lincoln Center); I.M. Pei (Silver Towers for NYU, Kennedy Library, Boston); Richard Meier (Perry Street towers, West Highway, NY); Renzo Piano (NYTimes Building, Garnder Museum and LACMA, L.A.); Rem Koolhaus (Seattle Library, Student Center at I.I.T.-Chicago - both totalling his only two buildings in the United States to date!)

The Illinois Institute of Technology campus was one of the great creations by legendary architect Ludwig Mies van der Rohe. Crown Hall is one of the world-renowned buildings and has been commemorated on postage stamps. The new kid on the block is the brash bright orange McCormick Tribune Campus Center by Dutch architect Rem Koolhaas. It is a shocking contrast to the Miesian grid of the campus, but it is a breath of fresh air.

It's all because of Mies that I am reminded to always look up. Because of "Less is More", in fact God IS in the details.