State of Mind

Still trying to process my trip back East. Like my road trip back in September, I'll probably break this one up into two posts: New York, and Cleveland.

I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times: New York is full of emotion for me. There's a lot built into that city, and I'm always both prepared and fully unprepared for how it affects me each time. I also forget how the hiccups of any experience in New York have a tendency to drown out the rest of the amazingness that happened on the trip.

I want to focus on the good, because there was a lot of it. So let's get over the hiccups first: a canceled birthday party (co-host got sick ... not his fault at all, but still disappointing); and throwing out my back again the second week of the trip, which involved a $200 set of visits to a chiropractor (which was a strange experience — they had three different guys poking and prodding at me, trying to figure out what was broken).

That was it. That was all the bad. But it was a bad that left the New York portion of the trip feeling ... incomplete. Maybe New York will always be incomplete for me, the longer I'm away and the more I become entrenched here in SF

At least the good of the trip was full of awesome. Just an example:



Yes, that is a TARDIS. Yes, I totally creamed my panties when I saw it.

I stayed this time with Jes and Nick. I've known her since we were 17; we met in an online Trashcan Sinatras-related chatroom. He is her fiancé, and a completely awesome and wonderful person who almost deserves her.



I'm eternally grateful to them: they tolerated my ups and downs, distracted me with British TV when I was sad, and Nick especially I am thankful for making me watch Predator and learn about the EPIC HANDSHAKE.


My bedmate was Fluffy Kitty

who insisted on at least 10 minutes of worship and adoration before settling down on the sofabed between my feet every night. Willingly given, I have to admit. (Sorry, Kitoose.)

The first week was spent working out of my company's New York office — it's my fourth time there, and it almost feels like a second work-home by now. I was able to fill the evenings with a different friend (or set of friends) every night, which made me feel good. Caught up with Erin and Nathan, Benny, Laura, Karen ... and of course had my night out drinking with Geof.


Playing here with someone's Sonic Screwdriver (I might have to get one of my own). He's responsible for being my personal sherpa from the airport, for getting me half-deaf my first night in town, for taking me to the TARDIS bar, for the disappointment of my birthday, and for the comfort breakfast and company when I could hardly reach down to put my own socks on. (FYI: throwing out your back is not only painful, but also humiliating.) That sonofabitch.

Jes and I saw the Trashcan Sinatras the Sunday after my birthday, which is the first time we'd seen them together.

With my back out, the best thing for me to do was, in fact, a lot of walking. So in the end my painful injury was a good thing. On the second Monday of my trip, I walked from Greenpoint where I was staying, across the Williamsburg Bridge and down to Battery Park, then back up Broadway to my chiro appointment.




Tuesday I went up to Washington Heights and wandered around a little before taking the subway down to 92nd Street and walking down Broadway to Columbus Circle, across to 5th Avenue, and then down to Union Square. It was the walk that really brought me back at peace with the City again. I'm glad I did it.

Wednesday Nick helped me schlep the ginormous suitcase of doom to the Hertz rental center, where I picked up a car for the drive to Cleveland. Yes, I drove to Cleveland. No, it wasn't nearly as bad as expected.

Illin' on Netflix

My immune system: weakened on four years of working nights, hiding from the sun and contact with other humans.

The punishment: still getting hit with bouts of sickness once or twice a month for a year and a half after I converted back to Daywalker status. Apparently, my vitamin-wrangling of Tuesday's under-weather state wasn't enough to scare it off completely; it's been lodged in the back of my throat for the last couple of days, just festering enough to keep me from being antisocial, yet still with a restless hunger to get out of the damn house.

Fortunately, I have the Netflix. (However, I'm starting to suspect that the Netflix subscription actually comes with a monthly dose of germs, slipped into my drinking water by red-cloaked ninjas in the middle of the night. Just to make sure I keep watching.)

Now that I've opted out of taking my disease to the slumber party I was scheduled to attend this evening (Netflix also doesn't seem to want me to have a social life with friends from high school, seeing as I keep getting sick on weekends that involve major exciting plans with anyone of that crowd.) (Hmm ... actually, that is an interesting pattern. Cathy's wedding. Stomach flu on the way to Steph's house. Now Alysha's birthday. I sense a pattern here.), I'm settling in for the night with knitting and an engorged queue of old movies and TV shows to watch. Watched so far this weekend: Commando, and Walk Don't Run.

Commando has been one of those movies that, as a girl who prefers hanging out with guys, I long knew I would have to see one day. It's one of those "Guy Flicks" that will randomly get referenced in conversations, or have clips linked to on Facebooks, or get spoofed in movies and/or TV. It was inevitable: if I didn't watch it myself, it would be forced upon me by one of the men I love, complete with grunting, beers, and "AWESOME" commentary.

And I have to say, after seeing it: Why the heck haven't you guys made me watch this film before? I feel like all the male friends in my life have failed me, forcing me to watch this movie on my own, on a Friday night, of my own volition. I think my conversation with friend Geof, who insisted on hearing my review of the movie once I'd seen it, sums up my feelings fairly accurately.


At least now I am in on The Commando Jokes ... and only missing Schwarzenegger's term as Governator by three weeks! That's me, always just missin' it. Thanks, boy friends.

(Speaking of boyfriends, my boyfriend is actually in town this weekend for SF Sketchfest, and I'm having to miss him. Fate keeps trying to keep us apart, but don't you worry, beloved. Someday I will meet you and you will understand exactly what you've been missing your entire gay life. Trust me.)

I also want to say something about Walk Don't Run, which was really only on my Netflix queue because I like Cary Grant, and this was his final film. I admit: was impressed. I feel pretty sure that Sophia Coppola took some inspiration from this film when she made Lost in Translation (and I don't just mean the location), but — this being the mid-60s — without the angst and loneliness pathos that characterizes the more recent film. The movie was pleasing, funny, and not entirely predictable. The comic sequences stretched just long enough, stopping before they got old, and I was pleasantly surprised to realize that one of the minor characters was George Takai, just before or right at the beginning of his Star Trek career. Hollywood is, apparently, a small place.

Risk: Free!

After a bout of sickness that was successfully wrangled down within 24 hours via the taking of vitamin supplements (but not before it sent me home from work in a wave of nausea and woozy), I decided today that it was time for me to keep a bottle of supplements at the office, so that there would be no way I could forget to take them in the morning.

Mind you, I generally don't believe in vitamin supplements — always figured that if you can't get it right from your diet, then you must be doing something wrong. But then, I spent half of my days off last year being sick, and I'd kind of like to avoid that for this year. Thus: a trip to the GNC around the corner from my office.

As I was checking out, the clerk popped this down on the counter next to my box

saying, "They want us to give this to you with your purchase. It's just a sample." He might have explained more than that, but not very much. And I shrugged, and paid my bill (heck, whatever it was, it's free) and didn't take a closer look at it until I got back to the office.

Note the little box of text on the front of the bottle. This is what it says:


I don't know about you, but two things stand out to me, looking at this label:

1. The wording kind of makes it sounds like this drug's true power is like a gigantic cock: only the most experienced can handle it right.
   
2. Why are they giving away for free something that tells you it needs to be run by a physician? Not even a caveat of "if you're weak in some way, then you should ask your doctor." No, it's straight up: better check with the doc before you even think about popping this baby open.

So is it me, or does it just seem sort of wrong? Perhaps I am just weak.