Bright Lights, Big City

When I was younger, I loved when my Aunt Stephanie or Uncle Vin would take me into New York City for the day and bring me on all sorts of cosmopolitan adventures. The Central Park Zoo, lunch at Jackson Hole on the UWS, an afternoon taping of whatever show my Uncle happened to be producing at the time, dropping into the video store on Columbus to end the day with a movie on the couch. I remember being so in awe of them and their wheeling freedom in NYC--how did they know their way around this place? Which way was North? What avenue was where? I'll admit that as much as I loved the city, I did harbor quite an intense fear of it, or should I say, fear of being on my own there. It always seemed vast and confusing to me, too "grown up" for me to handle. But thankfully I had my own tour guides to keep those fears at bay, and with them by my side, whirling me around Manhattan, I was free to revel in the city's energy and bottomless intrigue.

Now, while I did say "younger", I will admit that my trepidation with regards to NYC extended a bit past my childhood, and even into my college years. Which is why it was no bigger a surprise for anyone but myself when I decided to move there when I graduated. I suppose somewhere within me I recognized that it was time to begin my own education on "how to be a savvy city dweller". And, as some of my other writings on the glorious, mysterious, ever changing NYC will tell you, I am so glad that I did.

But what led me to reminisce on my adventures with my aunt and uncle was when I was walking up M street the other night, on the way to meet my cousin, Jacqueline. She is a freshman at Georgetown, and having just transferred here this semester she's brand new to DC. We went to see a movie, and in making our plans during the day, I suggested that she meet me at the theater. I was humbled at this suggestion when she admitted she didn't know how to get to the theater---and I realized that the role that my Aunt Stephanie and Uncle Vin had played so many times was now being passed onto me. I am now the one that knows my way around, that doesn't view the city as a foreign landscape, that "gets it."

Oh, what a wistful feeling. A little sadness--that I am no longer young and innocent enough to be led around the wonders of a city--but a little pride, as well. That in taking the plunge and moving to Manhattan, I acquired that casual, metropolitan like abandon that my Aunt and Uncle carried so well. That I can now make Jackie feel a little more at home in DC and hopefully instill in all of my younger cousins the same passion and verve for city life that was passed onto me. Because there is really nothing like that moment when the swirling, bustling streets of a city no longer make you nervous, but instead, feel like home.

Opening Night...

Oh, such a thrill. I spend my opening night days filled with a buzzing energy that zips me around, bouncing me through the hours with a heady expectation of what's to come that night. The feeling that in a few hours time you will be giving life to the thing you've been working on for months, that your character, whom you've come to know, understand, and feel so connected to, will finally take the stage. The day passes by in a blur; I'm just barreling through so I can start my preparations--usually unecessarily planned out things like when I will shower, when I will put together opening night gifts, how I will get in a light snack before the curtain goes up.

Ah, the curtain. That lovely, billowing wall that oozes with a hide and seek like anticipation. Is there anything quite like the seconds before Act One begins, when you're in place behind that sweet cover, just waiting for it to zoom aside and let your energy tumble forward, and that of the audience zing towards you, fueling eachother in that adrenaline pumping way?

Another op'nin, another show!!!!

Art Imitates Life

I saw this in an email forward yesterday. It's from a list that Erma Bombeck wrote, called "If I had my Life to Live Over." And I have to say, I completely disagree with it.

I would have cried and laughed less while watching television - and more while watching life.

First, let me say that I am the first person to both laugh and cry while watching life--I observe people and things and happenings so often and so deeply it is something achingly burdensome so have so many emotional thoughts and reactions to everything happening around me. I find life to be an endlessly fascinating montage and celebrate all the joys and sorrows it offers us--but I do not take this appreciation of "life in the flesh" and compare it with life on the silver or the small screen. They are two separate entities, and one surely feeds the other in a symbiotic way.

Television get such a bad rep. I will go ahead and add the disclaimer that there are countless examples of very, very bad tv out there--from ill-scripted sitcoms to the reality tv phenomenon. Yet, there are so many other shows with real heart to them that do not deserve to be shunned and disdained because they simply are what they are. Erma Bombeck implies that when one is moved to laugh or cry while watching television, he/she proejcts some kind of disdain for "real life" and succumbs to a manipulation by those attempting to create a false reality and steal you away from your life's moments. But did she think of what is behind those television moments that move us?

Behind them is a slew of people that put their God-given talents to work. There are cameramen who see with a different eye and catch creativity in motion, there are sound technicians, lighting experts, production assistants, costumers, makeup artists, craft services, producers. There are writers who slave over a script word by word in order to achieve just the right sentiment, to catch just the right joke, to turn just the right phrase. There are actors who work to bring these words to life, to do justice to their characters, who step out of themselves to create another person, another story. This is not life? A cross section of individuals all creating, producing what is essentially a modern day art form? And where do these writers find the inspiration for their poignant story lines, their comic gems, the characters they create? Where do the actors go to find the emotion, to understand their characters, to create their relationships? The answer is LIFE. Underscoring all of televisions best shows is the lives of all those who craft them--their loves lost, babies born, personal triumphs and happiest memories.

So I say that it is perfectly fine to laugh and cry at television; in fact it is a necessary joy. In doing so, you are giving testament to the blood, sweat and tears of those that brought that show to you. But you are also giving nod to the very fact that life gives us so many moments, and it is a treasure to recognize and react to them--in whatever medium they happen to occur.

Monumental Jogging

Lately, I've had to squeeze my workouts into my lunch hour, a practice I swore I'd never adopt again after years of stressful lunchtimes at New York Sports Clubs tarnished my relationship with exercise. Thankfully, I gave up the gym all together a few years ago and rediscovered my zest for a good, healthy workout by embracing outdoor walking and running, and my new collection of workout DVDs (recent favorites being yoga booty ballet, but that's a whole 'nother blog). I had a pretty steady schedule at work for a while that allowed me to complete my routine fairly early in the morning, but rehearsals for my show have changed that up a bit. So in order to fit in the workout, I must go at lunchtime. At first, I dreaded it, but then after a few jogs around the Georgetown area, I realized I was completely enjoying myself.

I tend to be a careful jogger--as in I don't like to venture into wooded paths (there's been one too many chandra levy like stories for my comfort, you know?). I pretty much run in some sort of loop and I will very rarely try to navigate a new way home for fear of getting completely lost. So all my afternoon jaunts have been on the safe side--down K street, then up onto the toe path. A few weeks ago I changed direction and ran along the river towards the Memorial Bridge, and in an uncharacteristic burst of energy I actually ran over the bridge and back. I love the Memorial Bridge, especially at night, so there was something slightly thrilling about being on that very same bridge that I cross many times while in a car, but this time on foot. Sort of like you feel exposed, but at the same time like you're appreciating this structure all the more by experiencing it a bit more organically.

So in order to enjoy the little springtime interlude yesterday, I set out to run and headed this time toward the National Mall. And so there I was, pacing along with the Lincoln at my back and the Washington standing sentry ahead, and I felt a new blend of endorphin--one mixed with a bit of patriotism and gratitude that as a DC resident, this is the backdrop that I am afforded for my afternoon jog. People from states and countries far and wide walk this same path as they explore our nations history-- told in powerfully bold statements from one monument to the next. There are our founding fathers to honor, our most exemplary Presidents to salute , and our nations' fallen heroes to remember as they are all given testament to in the form of marble, scultpure, and quiet architectural wonder. For many, it is a spot for cameras, for guidebooks and tours, a classroom experience come to life. For me, it is thirty minutes to myself away from the ringing phones and emails just down the river. It is my everday landscape--but its monumental proportions are not lost on me. And so I jog on....just me...on my lunch break...an American.

Pet Peeve

It's always lovely to venture out into humanity on a Monday morning only to be reminded how largely selfish and rude the majority of people are. This rant will probably be the first of many concerning that bastion of public transportation, the bus. In my case, DC buses. My daily trip should be painless--a short jaunt down Wisconsin on my way to work, and another one right back up it when returning home. But alas, there is always some annoyance to contend with, whether it's older people who give everyone the evil eye because you did not give up your seat for them, even if your seat is about 7 rows back and blocked by a sea of standing passengers, or just plain waiting for any bus to show up after walking 20 minutes in the cold and than subsequently standing at the bus stop for another twenty.

This morning my perturbance was lit by the fact that at my particular bus stop, people completely eschew the concept of a line. To me, it is completely common courtesy to let those who arrived first at the bus stop board the bus first; it is only fair. Down the road a bit at the Calvert Street stop, bus patrons obey the line rule, if only because the stop abuts a cleaners and there is very little room on the sidewalk, so the building aids in the formation of a nice, neat line. The next person to arrive at the stop simply falls in behind, and each person boards in the order they came. Thus, those waiting the longest are furnished with available seats on the bus, as it should be.

But up at my stop, people are oblivious to any such normal social niceties. People gather all askew--some people sit on the small brick wall outside the apartment building closest to the stop, some linger by the corner, others post themselves in the middle of the sidewalk. Now, for the most part, people are fairly accurate when boarding and do allow those who were clearly at the stop before them board first. But there is one particular kind of bus rider that feels that her presence at the stop is enough to let her waltz on before everyone else, even though she has arrived only second prior and the rest of us have been waiting for minutes. This offender is always a woman, usually dressed in a slightly outdated suit and walking with her nose in the air. Many times a Blackberry is in hand, as well as a shopping bag from some high end store to hold her odds and ends. She will saunter past all of us, command a post RIGHT at the curb so she is directly in front of the door when the bus arrives, and crown herself with the right to board first. This woman shows zero respect, in fact barely even acknowledges her fellow riders and deems herself worthy to take the last available seat and is clearly unaware, or most likely, uncaring, that the person who was waiting at the bus stop for fifteen minutes is now clinging to a hand rail and being catapulted around as the bus starts and stops.

When such a female presents herself, I want to march over and scream at her. To remove her from her pedestal and open her eyes to the fact that there are other people around and that this bus route does not revolve around her and her commuting needs. Instead, I stew the entire bus ride, and, admittedly, throw dirty glances her way, accompanied by a "tsk" with a shake of my head. This morning, feeling slightly emboldened, I boarded after her and said, half under my breath, "There IS a line." I'm not sure if she heard me, but I hope she did.

I know this is such a small matter, but really, in the world's swirl of tragedy and sadness, stress and worry, it IS these small gestures of basic human courtesy that bring a little bit of brightness to our society. That's why, when a gentleman who has been waiting patiently, in the cold, for that bus that never seems to appear, steps aside and lets me on first as I just make it to the stop, I smile widely and say "Thank you." Because I really, really mean it.