The Thermals at Bowery Ballroom

From Black Sand Journal

I will feel as free as Kathy looks in this photo on Tuesday night.

Patrick Wolf at Le Poisson Rouge

From Black Sand Journal

I love bouncers who can't do math. Approximately 12 hours before my politics final, I stood in line outside Le Poisson Rouge to receive my wristband for the Patrick Wolf show. I showed my real ID, but entered without underage X's marring my hands. I took it as a sign, and walked straight to the bar to order a pint of Red Fish Ale.

Call it irresponsible, call it badass - I value my education, but I don't skim on thrilling life experiences. It doesn't get much better than witnessing Patrick Wolf - the omnisexual demigod - perform a live acoustic show at a club on Bleeker Street.

Befitting the musical tone, the scene at Le Poisson Rouge was quite subdued. Fans obediently occupied tables, while those of us who came late lined the walls. Patrick shared the stage with a violinist, but played more instruments than I've heard of throughout the show.

Patrick emerged from his dressing room in a fitting black jacket and elaborate neck piece - both of which he had stripped off by the second song. I had never been all that attracted to him, but when an inebriated woman in the audience yelled, "C'mon Patrick - Get yer kit off," I found myself nodding in silent agreement.

His onstage banter is second to none. He spoke at length about his family, and what playing in New York means to him. His childhood fascination with Bleeker Street while growing up in a small town near Sussex certainly resonated with me. "I imagined a street full of cafés with fabulous musicians, but instead I got an American Apparel," he joked (I think, I hope).

He didn't have a fixed set list, and pretty much took requests from audience members all night. We sang happy birthday to his cousin Natalie, he asked whether anyone knew of a good line-dancing class for his Aunt Brenda. The show felt so homely.

He sang a bare bones version of Vulture for his encore. Not nearly as hot as the music video, but it was worth hearing just for his costume change. My jaw almost dropped when he said he'd finally found "the Yoko Ono to my John Lenon." I would have envisioned Patrick as Yoko.

Of course, it was pouring rain after the show. It was nearly 1AM and I hadn't eaten since lunch, but Lauren and I decided to run in the direction of the library. On the way she yelled "CART" and we ducked under its awning to order me some lamb over rice, before continuing our jovial scamper back to Bobst. I don't think I've ever shoveled food into my mouth so quickly. If you want to see more photos of the Patrick Wolf show, or just some stunning photography in general, check out Lauren's flickr site.

I ended up going to bed at 5AM, waking up two hours later to sit my final, and now blogging about the show. I haven't even had time to collect my thoughts on the phenomenal New Yorker Summit, but I will say that Ana Marie Cox (a.k.a. Wonkette, frequent guest on The Rachel Maddow Show and writer for the Daily Beast) tapped me on the shoulder to ask why I was twittering about her. Most bumbling, star-struck moment of my entire life. Movie stars? Who cares. Journalists? I'm weak at the knees.

One last thing - Patrick Wolf did an acoustic version of The Magic Position. The sneaky bastard let it creep up on me by blending it into the end of another song. Before I could prepare myself, the chords were booming out of his grand piano and he sultrily whispered the song title into the microphone. It wouldn't be a Black Sand Journal entry without some sort of revelation - and mine came as Patrick sang:

"Out of all the people I've known, the places I've been,
The songs that I have sung, the wonders I've seen,
Now that the dreams are all coming true,
Who is the one that leads me on through?"

It's (still) you.

Climate Incongruent To My Current Condition

From Black Sand Journal

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In Twenty Years....

You turn up at my front door with a bottle of Bombay Sapphire in hand and a smirk. Twenty years after college and I still only grudgingly drink gin in your company. I get two glasses, lots of ice, a little tonic. For the duration of our night-long conversation, every time I take a sip I grimace, every time I grimace you smile, and every time you smile I need to take another sip. This vicious circle is probably the most benign one we've seen during our long friendship.

Our eyes drift to the newer pictures plastered across my walls. The ones from our younger days are still my favorite - of us laughing at each other and all the sublime qualities of the city we both fell in love with. There are photos from my travels. You ask for the stories lurking behind the more startling images. I start by retelling an event in graphic detail, say crashing an inglorious motorbike - nothing like the ones I compulsively photograph - off a dirt path in central Asia. I quickly lose myself in describing the more memorable people I encountered - faces, accents, attitudes, idiosyncrasies. The days and years since college swiftly slipped away, we conclude after pouring over hundreds of photos together.

Now we're a little drunk, which inevitably leads us to playfully argue about how and why we first met. We skirt around some sensitive ground. You wield your trademark eye-locking glance and Cheshire cat smile; I stay silent for a moment longer than makes you comfortable. Somethings never change, we think to ourselves.

We begin to scrutinize each other for alterations. I wear a pair of 1950s black-rimmed glasses now, because after forty years my vision finally began to blur. I remind you, to rob you of your satiated look, that my sight will never approach legally blind like yours. It's impossible to pinpoint what exactly has changed about you with age; you always reinvented yourself on a monthly basis. But your eyes, thankfully, haven't lost a degree of intensity.

The rising sun dyes the sky blue with streaks of pink. We decide to grab coffee to sober up for the day. Though it is a trek, there is only one place our feet will take us, only one place worthy of capping off another classic night of catching up, only one place where our friendship began. I make sure to bring my camera, and I take what must be my 10,000th photo of you as you saunter down the cascading steps.

From Black Sand Journal

Yeah Yeah Yeahs secret show

I'm still out of breath. The tantalizing voice of Karen O continues to reverberate through my body the day after a secret Yeah Yeah Yeahs show in Chinatown. I have no words. Actually, I have a few.... after you watch this:



Karen O splutters beer like a geyser and exudes sounds as if perpetually on the brink of orgasm. She paired her thick blue eye make up with a kimono, which she stripped off to reveal a leather dress clad in chains and safety pins all tied together with a neon green bow. She looked like the goddess of punk and sadomasochism; her bewitching, creature-like movements at times paralyzed me. And Nick Zinner actually smiled.

The audience included an intoxicated Drew Barrymore and the delightful Andy Samberg. Those of us not of the guest list waited nearly two hours to gain entry. Lauren, Mike and I huddled together for warmth and chatted to a 25-year-old NYU alum who offered to share her weed and buy drinks for us under-21-year-olds (little did she know she was talking to some of the most relatively straight-edge college kids you're likely to find). Alex bailed on work 20 minutes early and ran 10 blocks to make it to the show in time. Her, "God, it's so hot" comment didn't go down well with those of us who had been freezing to save her a place in line for an hour and a half.

Mike actually touched Karen O's hand when she extended it over the crowd. Lauren shoved a fumbling Drew Barrymore, whose smokey-breath came at times too close for comfort. Alex talked directly to Karen O when the Yeah Yeah Yeahs were taking song requests (she asked for 'Date With The Night,' which they did indeed play). Mike got a sweaty towel and a chain that flew off Karen's dress. Alex actually climbed on stage to grab a set list, then tangled her foot in a cable on her way off and nearly toppled a monitor (Lauren was there for to save it).

The Yeah Yeah Yeahs definitely played their part in capping off the best weekend of my life, but none of it would have meant a damn if I couldn't share the moment with three of my favorite people in the world. I'm still radiating joy - my bones were tingling this morning and I keep rupturing the cut on my lip because I can't stop grinning.

Every time I've been screwed over, every horrible insult I've suffered, every moment I've felt let down and every scar on my body was worth enduring to lead me to the most spectacular night of my life. This is the rapture Blondie was rapping about.

Blue Spring

The weather in April has been nothing short of schizophrenic. One day I'm sweltering in my skinny jeans, the next I'm shivering in my rain-soaked hoodie. Why are transitions never smooth...

My moods have been as erratic as the weather. Yesterday, for instance, I felt tormented by irrepressible thoughts all afternoon, then went on to have the most spectacular evening out drinking Sangria and dancing till 4 AM. I cannot maintain a frame of mind long enough to write out a post about how I feel about anything, which is why I haven't blogged in forvever.

I did take a few photos during the sunnier days of the last fortnight. The photos this week remind me of my best friend Stefhan.

From Black Sand Journal

He and I studied the Italian Unification together in history class senior year.

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During history class, apart from taunting our teacher, we'd talk about movies, morals, anime, religion, video games and cars.

From Black Sand Journal

And his favorite film is "Big Fish."

Soccer Ball and the City

It all started Thursday night when I uttered an embittered - "Oh, fuck me" - in the laundry room. I anticipated toasty clean clothes, but found only drenched ones. It dawned on me that after paying for the dryer an hour earlier, I had forgotten to hit the start button - hence the cursing.

I have absolutely no shame (reference my tattoo, that time I went to a singles event at Babeland in the name of journalism, etc.) and vented my pent up frustration in front of a fellow midnight laundry-doer. To my surprise, she asked me what was wrong. I told her. To my even greater surprise, she swiped her card and paid for my dryer. My astonishment left me to stutter out a thank you with a longer delay than a live TV appearance by Russell Brand.

I'm not the I've-always-relied-on-the-kindness-of-strangers type, but cynicism isn't necessarily preferable to naivety when it comes to an outlook on humanity. Downtown Manhattan certainly hammered that point home during a enchanted Friday afternoon. My new prescription for fighting big city blues in New York is to amble through supple West Village streets or loiter around divine parks with a soccer ball in hand or by foot. I promise, magical things will happen.

The afternoon started on a very isolated note. At East River Park, with my soccer ball, I took 17 penalties in a row - aiming for the right side netting of the goal every time. It was my way of disciplining myself for moments when nerves tend to get the better of me. A group of twenty-somethings borrowed my pump for their American football. I bantered with the man who made my lunch about the indifferent attitude Americans have towards the beautiful game. I played a pick-up game of soccer with some Mexican guys at the John Walker Park in the West Village, until a platoon of 9-year-old's ousted us with parents and permits. I watched on with delight as four middle school kids at Sugar Sweet Sunshine played cards and ate cupcakes. Bouncing the ball as I waited to cross Chrystie Street, a truck cruised by and the driver yelled out to me - "I'll play with you!" - I smiled and gave him a thumbs up. I played a passing game on the First Avenue sidewalk as I chatted to some eastern Europeans. Walking along the periphery of StuyTown, I saw a construction worker with an array of tools beside him and an open bottle of Yuengling.

All afternoon, as I roamed between 18th and Canal from the West Side Highway to the FDR Drive, people would shoot me a puzzled smile and ask, "Soccer ball?" as if I were holding a mystical creature previously thought to be extinct. I garnered many a longing gaze from the profusion of young children scampering out of schools.

I've always considered this city a playground, but in a strictly adult way. There is an anonymity about partying in New York that allows people to freely indulge in public intoxication, fornication and pupil dilation. But Friday afternoon's slice of spring showed me a softer side of New York that encouraged me to relax the guarded stance I've adopted as of late. How easily I found playmates made me feel like a small kid. No worries apart from the embarrassment of a miskick; no pain apart from sore legs; no fears apart from goal tending next. All this liberation because of a soccer ball.

That night, I stood on the deck of the Staten Island Ferry with two of my best friends as we drifted from the tip of Manhattan. The Statue of Liberty flanked us on the left, the Financial District illuminated our view ahead and ruffled water marked the path we'd taken. My mind shut out unpleasant thoughts and focused fully on the splendor in front of me. That's the way I hope it stays.

Feminstinct

From Black Sand Journal

I should have stolen this moped. I imagine a woman parked it at the steps of Gould Plaza after absconding from the 1950s. My guess is she took full advantage of modern day America by purchasing a metro card, throwing on a pair of jeans and letting herself loose at some sapphic bar in the West Village.

Or at least that's what I hope she did. My man-hate as of late has hardly been covert. Not that I actually hate men - off the top of my head I can name eight that I consider my closest friends, two of whom I've dated. Though they broke my heart last weekend, the men who pull on the red shirt of Manchester United will always command my love and respect.

But my entire life I've found myself frustrated with gender roles and what people label as 'ladylike'. Long before I could even conceptualize sexuality, I was a tomboy. I liked the ninja turtles and played soccer religiously. I never liked pink or wore anything remotely girly, and those habits stayed with me throughout adolescence. I like vintage Adidas trainers, not Nine West high heels (though I own a delightful 3.75" pair that I wear when I'm feeling masochistic). I love my button-downs, jeans and new blazer more than I ever could a dress. My androgynous style is what I am comfortable with, but it hasn't always garnered the most respect. As a soccer-playing and foul-mouthed 16 year-old, how to attract boys became a huge source of anxiety.

Instead of trying rebuke the unnecessary expectations heaped on me to look and act 'ladylike' (really, wtf does that mean? Cooking? Cleaning? Nodding enthusiastically in silent agreement with whatever my boyfriend just said?), I conformed - kinda. I think I was still myself on the inside - outspoken and unrelenting - but I just looked more like what people wanted on the outside. Ears pierced, hair straight, short skirts, make-up done. This new expression of my femininity was for the sole purpose of attracting men.

These insecurities about my perceived sexuality held me back from embracing something that should have come naturally to me - feminism. In fact, I think my short-lived burst of femininity was innately anti-feminist. Why was I aspiring to be something that made me feel uneasy and awkward? Why did I believe confining myself to mainstream femininity was a prerequisite for male affection? Of course, being feminine is perfectly fine... when it is what you want to be.

Honestly, the misandry is misdirected hate. I got more criticism from girls while growing up than I did from boys, but boys were what I was after. Oddly enough, now that I'm in college and the years of high school restlessness and fake-femininity are behind me, I am the most narcissistic son-of-a-bitch you are ever likely to meet. I wear what I want and choose the way I behave regardless of whatever gender-rules people of either sex may think I'm violating. That is feminism. This all comes back to the reasons I got my tattoo; I fucking wanted it - end of story.

One small but significant caveat to an otherwise liberating story. All this misplaced misandry is inspired by probably the only man I've been involved with who relished the real and raw me. Gotta love the irony.

Then he said, "Welcome to the club."

Long time, I know. Lets recap an eventful week.

Starting with the bad - what the fuck is wrong with South Asia? Seriously - terrorists hijacking Mumbai hotels, air striking downtown Colombo, and now shooting up the cricketers in Lahore. The news has not sunk in. For the love of God - they are sportsmen. Not soldiers or politicians or anybody who carries clout beyond the boundary ropes. Targeting them was cowardly - like all terrorist acts - but the fact the attack was so naively unexpected makes it all the more embittering. David Hopps wrote an immensely moving article that was published in the Guardian today.

From Black Sand Journal

Now, the good - actually, the dazzling. My sister got married over the weekend. Coincidentally, all the bottles in the picture above mysteriously disappeared. I may have been responsible, but honestly I did not commit much to memory that night.

As always, my flight back to New York was delayed. When I eventually made it to the city I came home to this wonderful view. Strangely enough, I haven't found the freezing temperatures or snow all that inconvenient, though that may be because I used both as an excuse to skip all my classes that don't take attendance.

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All the snow-allotted free time gave me the opportunity to finally go through with something I've wanted for the past two years. The first two months of 2009, amidst all the unexpected and at times disturbing occurrences, have instilled in me the common sense not to deny any aspect of myself - which is why I got a tattoo.

I sat calmly in the waiting area of an Alphabet City tattoo parlor, with a man who no superlative could ever live up to. He was jittery. In anticipation of getting inked, I didn't think about the pain or the needles or the possibility of future regret. The tattoo became a part of me in the moment that I decided what, where and why I wanted it. While we lingered, inhaling that oddly satisfying sterile scent, I knew the tattoo was already done - I was merely going through the motions and time to arrive at a place I had reached long before. The real surprise lay in my sudden hankering for an avocado as I looked at the ink seeped into my skin for the very first time.

From Black Sand Journal

FYI: Week from hell coming up, so sadly bye-for-a-while again.

Fragments of a Week

From Black Sand Journal

New Jersey is somewhat redeemable when you see it from across the Hudson. No matter the direction I'm walking in, the snow always slaps me across the face. There is something about her presence that reminds me of Cheshire cat. Looking at a broken mirror gives the most honest reflection of myself. I will not buy a cupcake. Vile temptress of a cupcake. Yum. He top scored with 66 runs. I wonder if my mother wants to hang me for treason? If I had refilled my zippo I could have offered him a light. If I had a cigarette I could have asked him for a light. It should be illegal for tall men to wear frayed baseball caps after sunset. My foot is throbbing after kicking a lamp post on the corner of SoHo park. He cuts the right wire just before I'm about to detonate. I felt complete at midnight in Alphabet Town.

Twenty

Note: I apologize for the way this entry is going to sway between description and meandering thought.

My birthday has always been a highly convoluted affair, and yesterday was no exception.

The anticipation starts mounting from New Years day. I plan an elaborate celebration with a band of my best friends. I make reservations. I bake brownies. I stock every shelf of my fridge with beer. An adult formula for fun.

I had planned to be up the Empire State Building at midnight on my birthday, but the fates conspired to close the observatory deck because it was freezing (where is global warming when you need it?). Plan B brought me to the Brooklyn Promenade after midnight. I crossed the threshold out of my teens and into my twenties not admiring the view of my city from the top of its most stunning creation. Instead, I found myself on a subway platform waiting for the C and counting rats. Glorious.

I woke up later that day, but it was still early. Overnight I had morphed into that ungrateful, snarky anti-socialite I usually am on my birthday. I decided to take a long walk to prepare myself for all the people I'd have to greet with an artificial smile plastered across my face. Those damn bastards who want to commemorate my day of birth, how dare they!

I didn't carry my phone or wear my watch. The snow bludgeoned down and coated the parts of my hair that my overwhelmed hoodie could not cover. I walked west on 23rd to the Flatiron building, where I got a clear view of the beautiful building that had rejected me 7 hours ago. I'm living in a tourist's snow globe - of course he picked today to give it a shake and fuck everything up.

My legs led me to the unlit shop window of children's bookstore I had stumbled upon a couple of weeks ago on a cupcake-run.

From Black Sand Journal

On that day, I sat on a bench in the back and reread the book above. It is my favorite kids story because it deals with anger. Max is pissed off and envisions himself king of an island inhabited by monstrous figments of his raging imagination. I cope with my flurries of fury in a similar fashion. I will obliterate whoever I am annoyed at with my vitriolic rhetoric in a make-believe argument. I save all my malice and caustic remarks for these unreal arenas; I imagine my opponent sniveling in shame and wincing with indignation. I always feel better, and I rarely let any of that venom seep into the real-world counterparts.

I walked downtown on Broadway. For all the unhappy events that punctuated my childhood, I cannot deny the delight with which I read books, played football, and watched cartoons. I've spent my entire life wanting to be older, but now that I'm there I suddenly want to be younger. I associated age with the ability to abscond and be independent of everything - not true. All that changes is who you want to escape. Still a caged bird, the keys have just passed hands to new owners.

Self-doubt accompanied me as I headed east on 18th. I want to dedicate my life to people, but I don't have the strength to devote myself to a person. Did I mean that? Why am I planning a night of alcohol-induced merriment to celebrate my birthday if I previously decided that I'm more concerned with the aggregate amount of human happiness because my personal supply is so unsatisfying? As that disturbing notion occurred to me, I began to rue the fact I left my notebook and pen at home. If I can't remember these thoughts by the time I get home, how important are they really?

I sauntered down Irving Place. I keep telling a friend that I would do unspeakable things to live in particular neighborhoods of New York, and the area surrounding Gramercy Park is certainly one them. Her advice to me was to start sleeping with residents of the areas of town I admire (no elaborations on that point on this blog).

I dusted the snow off That Black Jacket before heading inside. In an unexpected twist, the rest of my day ended up being amazing. I think it's because I made hummus from scratch - the tahini that I add always does something kooky to me. I was bouncing off the walls at dinner, there was no need to indulge in the bottle (oh, but I did). I had not felt such sheer elation in a very, very, long time. To see some of the people I care for the most all together with me on my birthday engraved a real smile across my face. It must have been the hummus.

The night (kind of) ended at the front desk with my head spinning as I watched YouTube videos of the security guard a.k.a Mamba King. While I patiently stared at this man dancing Salsa on the offending computer screen, my body shivered and convulsed uncontrollably because about five minutes earlier I decided to bask in the brisk winter night wearing slippers and That Black Jacket, unzipped. The (appropriately dressed) person with whom I stood in the cold had made some complimentary remark regarding my intellect earlier in the night. She should reconsider.

The intervening hours between the consumption of hummus and the gyrating security guard were fun for reasons I do not quite understand yet. I stopped thinking for an evening. Many of my emotional preoccupations vanished last night, as did some other self-imposed limits. I have made mountains of thought today to make up for it, much of which I'm not ready to publish yet. Till then, please listen to Elliott Smith's "Say Yes," and revel in (or reflect fondly on) your twenties.

From Black Sand Journal

NYC-Style Generosity...

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... soothing music....

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... sound advice...

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... and serviceable trash.

Edit

"I dream of rejecting all the apologies I know will never come."

- Submitted to Post Secret (and read by me before I knew what it truly meant)

From Black Sand Journal

I'm rewriting the post I published yesterday because I didn't think it clearly conveyed what New York City means to me or what New York City gives me that nothing else has.

If I've called anywhere "home" in the past it was predominantly for a select group of individuals who lived there at the time rather than the place itself. I stopped referring to Sri Lanka as home as soon as I started living there, and I have to admit with most of my friends now at English universities Vienna feels much less like home than it did when I first moved away.

Intimacy is awkwardly entangled with disappointment - people and places lose their shine with the wear and tear of daily interaction. The epigraph to this post has applied all too often to me in in the past. I've struggled with people who haven't met my expectations. Either they have to start trying harder or I have to set the bar lower - I obviously only have the power to influence the latter option.

I've been guilty of trying to extend beautiful moments beyond their expiration date. I've tried to recreate memories that I reminisce about by simply putting the same people in the same place, but the whole situation only ends up feeling artificial - an imitation that is an insult to the original.

So, how does New York City defy my previous experience with places I've lived? Yes, much of my love for the City is inspired by people, but not necessarily just the ones I know. I think New York feels like home for all the people I have the potential to love as much as it does for all the people I do already. The streets are flooded with hope and opportunity. An argument with one friend, one relation, one lover just doesn't pack the same punch it did before. If 2008 taught me anything it is that I want to dedicate my life to people, but I don't have the strength to devote myself to a person (yet). Now when things go up in flames, I feel more phoenix than forlorn.

I should live here!

Tree Houses in Madison Square Park!

From Black Sand Journal