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Lately, it's become obvious that I've had a hard time adjusting to New York. When I first arrived, I was so consumed by work that I never settled in. Neveracclimated. Now I find myself, almost a year later, without much of a social circle outside of my girlfriend(without much means zero).
At work, I have mostly solo projects to work on, which combined with my natural introverted nature makes socializing there difficult. Plus, I haven't shaken the feeling that I don't fit in. To quote High Fidelity, I feel like one of those people who shaved their heads and said they'd always been punk: I'm a fraud, and I'll be discovered at any second. Everyone at the office is so...New York. They are all at least four of the following: young, hip, smart, worldly, and attractive. This isn't what I'm used to: for past five years I've worked for the government. I went from shirt, ties and blue blazers to a daily fashion show.
What to do, what to do.
So my girlfriend had an idea: spend a Saturday apart. The idea was to force me to explore the city on my own. To grow.
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I'm not sure what growing in NYC entails, but I hope it involves a lot of drinking at coffee houses. That's where I've ended up early Saturday afternoon after my morning workout, sipping...mocha. I miss my hot chocolate, but the world wants me to grow. In honor of eMusic adding the Rolling Stones(64-70) to their catalog, the soundtrack to my Saturday apart will be the Stone's three best albums: Aftermath, Beggars Banquet, and Let It Bleed. So I sit back, and start Aftermath on my new iPod1.
"Paint It Black"
The girls aren't in their summer clothes, but I do see something else that happens everyday: a Starbucks full of young go-getters. Every day a group of young men and women in suits takes over all the seating. They look like actors auditioning for a role in a commercial about a community college. They have PDAs, Blackberrys, cellphones, and they scribble things onto yellow legal pads with one apparent goal: recruiting. Other not-so-dressed-for-success young adults wander in, and they interview them. For what, I don't know. I'm guessing it's some sort of cult. Or real estate related.
I've kept the gym habit up, surprisingly, for the last couple of months. I think I've grown addicted to the post-workout feeling of renewed confidence, and on Saturday that feeling lasts until the end of the weekend. It's a penance to avoid feeling wretched. I live in Harlem, but I trek to the gym near my office in Times Square. It's an "office" gym, which means it's practically empty on the weekend. My "home" gym is always over crowded on the weekend, and I'm tired of making up excuses for the trainer there as to why I haven't started a program with him yet. For some reason, though, I want him to know I still workout. I'm no slacker, Chris. I just can't afford you, you big-smiling top-heavy bastard!
"Going Home"
Aftermath is a quick album; I'm already on the last track. Sorry Mick, I can't go home to see my girl. I need to make this city my new home. Get used to it.
I take a break from the Stones to listen to the new Raconteurs album, Consolers of The Lonely, only now realizing the coincidental title. It's brilliant. Hopefully my totally untrained thoughts on music will be published again. Regardless, it's fun to write about it. Pick it up if you like rock music.
I decide to read for a while. In my bag I have Angela's Ashes by Frank McGourt, The Gathering by Anne Enright, and How To Be A Man: Scenes from a Protracted Boyhood by Thomas beller. I pull out the Beller. It's a great read, immersing me in New York in a way I've so far been unable to duplicate in real life. I briefly imagine a pretty girl coming up to talk to me, but then realize I'm reading a book titled How To Be A Man. Women would probably prefer someone who doesn't need directions in masculinity. Besides, my attention-whoring doesn't need to be fanned today.
I take a break, and call my brother. I have to tell him I can't co-sign on his first apartment, because if for no other reason, my credit is horrible. Plus, isn't that what parents are for? After I get off the phone, I realize that the next time I visit home, none of my three younger brothers will be there. They'll have their own places. Weird.
I call my three best friends(they live back in Maryland). One is busy, so I leave a message. I talk to the other two for a couple hours. In a true display of guydom, during one conversation we manage to reenact an obscure scene from Lethal Weapon, following a loosely-related bit about giant eighties cellphones. The awesomeness of RoboCop 2(which he is watching) and the craptasticness of RoboCop 3 are discussed. I learn Peter Weller is a professor of ancient history, and very popular at Syracuse. And baseball, we talk a lot of baseball. I discover that the evils of Walmart can be forgiven, temporarily, if they deliver your Wii a day earlier than expected. I should call these guys more often.
I'm hungry. Next door is pretty decent pizza place, that - thanks to the reality of NYC rent - has to subsidize itself with a Subway Sandwiches shop. I get a nice, big slice of pepperoni and a - sigh - Diet Coke. Nothing says I've been forever changed by New York to my friends back home than the fact that I now drink Diet Coke. It's almost like handing over my penis.
I decide to go see a movie, the pinnacle of social activities. It's a great opportunity to
"Sympathy For The Devil"
If I was going to meet the devil, the lights and chaos of Times Square would be an appropriate place to do so. This is a city, after all, where I'm pretty sure the most beautiful woman I've seen all night was a man. Or maybe I'm just bisexual. And hell can't be anymore crowded than the tourist-filled2 streets are tonight.
I'm briefly surrounded by a group of three friends whose average height is - I swear - 7'6". Don't these guys know the traditional dynamics of North American males? One tall guy, one fat guy, one cute/girly guy and some assorted adorable average men(the kind who end up with Drew Berrymore at the end of the movie). No, these guys have bonded over being giants.
Walking by the theater where A Chorus Line is playing, I notice the headlining quote from Michelle Bennett: "Dedicated to anyone who has ever danced in a chorus...or marched in step - anywhere."
I briefly march in step, and retroactively have a Broadway musical dedicated to me. I feel like I'm having a productive weekend.
"Street Fighting Man"
The sound of marching feet, and there is nothing for a poor boy to do but...well I could see Shine A Light, the Rolling Stones concert movie, but that seems a little ridiculous. Instead, I decide to see The Bank Job. Afterwards, it's three in the morning. I've been out, I've seen a couple movies, read some books, listened to some great music, and had a lot of Starbucks. Not a bad weekend; not the one I was probably supposed to have, but a step in the right direction(this is probably not true, and is instead an example of cognitive dissonance).
"Gimme Shelter"
If ever there was a perfect song for walking the streets at night, this is it. Combined with neon lights and towering steel expanses of Manhattan, the haunting rhythm guitar and Merry Clayton's howl become even more foreboding. I should head home, but I walk some more. I decide to walk up to 72nd street, and catch the train home from there. It's a nice enough night for walking.
"Midnight Rambler"
It's not too cold. With the light breeze, the night just feels perfect. It adds a crispness to every moment, enhancing the sensation of being alive. Drunken revelers are on every corner. A homeless vet scares the shit out of me when he materializes out of nowhere when I pass a stoop. The city is alive, humming, and oblivious to my presence. I'm at 72nd.
By this time, Let It Bleed has run it's course and I'm ending my Saturday to "You Can't Always Get What You Want", a song both revered and reviled by rock and roll fans. I can only assume it's detractors hate The Big Chill and boys choirs(probably a fear of castration). I didn't get exactly what I wanted out of this, but then again, I haven't really tried the way I should have yet. But I will.
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It just occurred to me that I've been walking around with my gym bag all day. I must have looked like an ax-murderer carrying around the heads of his victims.
1This clearly illustrates my life priorities: I now own more iPods than long-sleeve shirts.
2I feel like an asshole complaining about tourists in a city I've lived in less than a year, but then again, maybe that helps me fit in better.
2 comments:
It's called "imposter syndrome" and people actually study it because sooo many people feel that way. From an article in the NY Times:
"Questionnaires measuring impostor fears ask people how much they agree with statements like these: “At times, I feel my success has been due to some kind of luck.” “I can give the impression that I’m more competent than I really am.” “If I’m to receive a promotion of some kind, I hesitate to tell others until it’s an accomplished fact.”
Researchers have found, as expected, that people who score highly on such scales tend to be less confident, more moody and rattled by performance anxieties than those who score lower."
(I found the link to the article in an article about new managers and their (my) fears.)
I can't even read the whole article b/c it's so freakin' technical and boring. But just take my word for it -- you are not alone in feeling out of place where you are. Remember Chestertown and how it was so quintessentially J&C?
Yeah, totally took us two years and a nervous breakdown (mine) for us to be comfortable there. And then we moved. So, uhem. I know how you feel.
I do dislike (hate is too strong) The Big Chill, boy choirs and I do fear castration. Frankly if you are male and don't fear castration, what the hell is wrong with you? I also don't like how pretentious it is with the choir, and mainly it is (as most Stones songs are) one of the most overplayed songs of all time.
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