Bad Photoshop Job

This Month's Cover of New York Magazine is by far, one of the worst magazine covers I have ever seen. It is definitely the ugliest and most tasteless portrait of a First Lady that I have ever seen. I know times are tough New York Mag, but getting your intern to do the cover art is always a bad decision.

Identity Crisis of a Southern Gentleman

I recently went on a date with a young man who literally morphed into Humphrey Bogart after a few whisky and ginger ales. He was a smart person, a psychology major at his university, with good taste is film, music and drinks. He was also a great listener, sensitive, and polite. I've gone on dates with less promising individuals in the past. A date turning into Bogart wouldn't have been so bad. Typically there is something appealing about the strong, silent type. I noticed as the night proceeded that he became less goofy "bad-joke kid" and more Bogart like. I wouldn't have thought anything of it, assuming that his similarities to the late great actor were purely coincidental. I had been drinking too, so I didn't mind the old-mannish way that he called me kid, as in "Here's looking at you, kid", while he lit two cigarettes and handed one to me. Who knows, maybe after a few drinks I start to sound like Mae West, flirting and winking all over the place. The problem is directly before the morphing (which happened somewhere in between drink number 2 and drink number 3) he gave his secret away and confesses that Bogart was is personal idol when it came to women and relationships. This made the transition impossible to ignore. He went through the change. He stopped smiling, and fiddling, his voice actually deepened. I suggested that he Netflix Woody Allen's Play it Again, Sam, which shockingly, he had never seen. Then I thought to myself, this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Obsession in Public

Obsession is a funny thing. I recently got tickets to see Grizzly Bear at BAM, inside the Howard Gilman Opera House this past Saturday. The show was amazing. It opened with Final Fantasy's Owen Pallett singing and performing on the piano, which he self admittedly never does. Both Grizzly Bear and Final Fantasy performed with the Brooklyn Philharmonic. The show sold out weeks in advance and I was lucky enough to get seats last minute (the day before). We sat in Box 7, seats 6,7, & 8. The view was amazing and I couldn't believe that these were considered cheap seats. So the place was packed and seated a total of 2,109 people. I could see the stage and the entire orchestra, mezzanine and balcony from my seat, though looking down did make me a little dizzy. Grizzly Bear played a substantial part of their Yellow House 2006 (one of my top ten of the decade) release as well of several songs from their new album, Vechatimest, and some songs that they never played live before.



So, in a room full of literally thousands of people, I was able to spot the man who broke my heart years ago. I thought that he might be there, it was the kind of hip pretentious event that would attract him. The likeness was so close, but the mind plays tricks. I think I see this person every other day. It used to be every day, 100 times a day. Every tall thin dark haired man with glasses was him. Spotting him in the crowd was like looking at an impressionist painting too close up. I was putting the pieces together. The blurry features of his face - just colors of shadow and light, motion- just broken gestural lines. The turn of his head, the placement of his hand, the angle of his shoulders, all of these things enabled me to identify the small, blurry figure. I played games with myself. IF the figure, after he applauds, places his right hand on his face it is a sure sign it is he. I measured with my trained eye, the length of this arms and hands. I noticed how he was leaning in on his date, how they were holding hands, with right hand extended across his body. Everything looks so in place, so familiar. I couldn't doubt it was him.

In a room full of thousands, I could spot him. He was sitting down, 100 feet away, in the dark, half an inch tall. I was obsessing about the possibility of this person being him. Astonished that I looked and he was there. I focused on him. As I studied him, the crowd surrounding him became an ocean of waves, each one identical to the last, each one moving and holding him afloat. He was the only other person in the room, and that terrified me. Not even his date distracted me from him.

I have bumped into the heart breaker 5 times since the split. This is an average of 1.33 times per year. The first time was on a hot summer day, I stopped him in the street to say hello and then cried that entire afternoon. The second time was at a neighborhood bar, a place we frequented together. I was waiting for a date with a few friends, we avoided each other, and later exchanged apologetic e-mails like children passing notes in the hall. The third time, I was in a cab going south on Broadway. I looked out the window, and there he was, just walking along. Seeing him again, in a city of 9 million people, made me feel happy. It was as if we were still somehow connected, even though he wasn't in my life anymore. The time after that, I saw him while riding my bike, on my way back from the post office, picking up hamantashen that my mother had made and sent to me. I almost got hit by a car, I swerved, I looked up, and he was standing on the street. I rang my bell as I flew by. So now, when the real thing appears again like a mirage of crystal clear water, it's still hard to believe my eyes. I can't ignore the possibility of a cool drink after months of thirst. He is forever ingrained in my mind, and after all this time, I could still spot him, was still drawn to him. I was still thinking of him, still looking for him.



Once several years ago we were at the same bar in the LES, one booth apart, facing each other, he was looking at me, and he still didn't recognise me. My hair was different, and he wasn't wearing glasses was the excuse. This exemplifies the love distribution in our relationship. I had it all, and he had non. Loosing love is like loosing your legs in a freak accident. It's a constant struggle to continue living life like before. The heart knows no time, and phantom limbs are forever. Not that this is all bad. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, and some people have a fetish for amputees.