Iceland 2011, An extended layover

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London in June!

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Just a Bill...Who Wants to Marry a Tom

Hello Friends,

As many of you know, I'm not a huge fan of the body politic. For the most part, I believe that if they're doing a good job, we hardly know they're there--this can be difficult when one examines their paycheck and sees the aggressive taxes we pay to be a part of (what I believe is) the greatest principality in all the world. That said, I would pay in pints of my own blood to live here in New York because it is only place on earth where I feel free to be myself. New York is the only place where I feel free to say what I want to say--as loud as I want to say it; it's a place where I feel safe kissing my love on a street corner, holding her hand across a table in any restaurant, or walking arm in arm through a park after a long day at work. These are things I am grateful for, every time. They are part of what makes New York such a comfortable place to live for people like us. These things are slowly, incrementally improving elsewhere, but New York is a trail-blazer. And the same way fashion, music, theater, finance, and literary movements start here, so too should political movements that grant equality and justice for all our citizens.

We have a chance to make a difference today. I've never called a senator in my life--and frankly, I was terrified when a real person picked up the phone. I thought for certain I could talk to a machine, press 1 for my right to marry the woman I love in the state where I live & pay taxes, and go on about my merry way. I thought maybe I could tweet my way through this monumental political decision. I even thought perhaps having a pretty picture of myself with some duct tape over my mouth and the words No H8 on my cheek would really have an impact. But today I did a grown-up thing, I called a senator's office, spoke to one of his aids, gave my name and zip code, and was counted among those in favor of obtaining the right to marry the one I love. It was simple but powerful. I called and said "Hi, I'm calling on behalf of the marriage equality act. I'd like to be counted among those in favor of my right to marry whomever I choose." Then spelled my name and gave my zipcode and she said "Thank you, I'll tell the Senator you called." It took 30 seconds.

And so, I invite you to do the same. If you're so inclined, just give your name and zipcode to one of these Senators (this is the list of those on the fence), and be counted. It's a little scarier than texting an American Idol vote, but it's a bit more empowering. Give one of these offices a ring if you have 30 seconds today--it would honestly take longer to tweet something...well, if you're as verbose as I am...

Sen. Dean Skelos, Republican Leader of Senate, (518) 455-3171

Sen. Greg Ball (Putnam County) (518) 455-3111

Sen. Joe Griffo (Utica) (518) 455-3334

Sen. Mark Grisanti (Buffalo, Grand Island, Niagara Falls) (518) 455-3240

Sen. Andrew Lanza (Staten Island) (518) 455-3215

Sen. Jack Martins (Nassau County/Garden City) 518-455-3265

Sen. John Flanagan 518-455-2071 (Long Island)

Sen. Stephen Saland 518-455-2411 (Poughkeepsie)

Sen. Kemp Hannon 518.455.2200 (Long Island)

Thanks guys and have a good one,

Arti-choked Up

I was having a crummy day. One of the old, cranky guys at work got snappy with me that morning and I lost it. I started crying right in his office. Of course, being an old Italian man, he softened instantly and made every attempt to be nicer for the rest of our time together. But still, I couldn't cheer up. There seems to be something wrong with me in that, once I've cried, in the course of the day, the door to my tear-ducts remains open and the tears seem to be lined up, like tiny soldiers, ready to dive out of their hiding place. It's all I can do to pull it together and remain calm for the rest of the day. I returned to my own office only to be bombarded with emails, phone calls, and hard sighs from those dissatisfied. It's the end of the year and we're all a little edgy. I try to keep a low-profile in these last few days before Christmas, but it's an awful way to work.

I had to disappoint someone today, I had to let them know that I couldn't show up for them in the way I had wanted to. It's hard to find time for everyone and everything in your life, and I try to be as good a friend to as many people as possible, but sometimes it seems unrealistic. Am I better off being a bad friend? Or no friend at all? But this was just the tipping point in an already stressful day.

I decided to take a walk. I thought about just running out to grab some lunch, just going somewhere close and bringing the food back to my desk, but I needed to clear my head. I set out in search of something to cheer me up in under an hour. I thought about walking over to my sister-in-law's office, asking for a hug in the middle of the day (she works a few blocks from me, in an emergency, I could always go there for some love); but even the thought of familial warmth on this icy, grey day made the little soldiers behind my eyes head for the door. I couldn't afford to get messy before a long afternoon back at work.

I wandered onto my old college campus. I strolled down a little street where I used to know all the shops. There was a fondue shop called the Bourgeoisie Pig where I celebrated my 20th birthday--now a head shop. A Chinese restaurant called Wok&Roll around the corner was where I felt my first pang of love--it's a sushi bar now. The place where my art teacher used to take me for coffee is still there. It's a funny little place, terribly uncomfortable, but inviting nonetheless. I ponder this a moment and just before the grey feeling of nostalgia began to envelope me, a new pizza shop caught my eye. Here in New York, there must be 3 pizza shops per block, and they all look the same. Their red and green awnings cover an all-glass front where one can peer in and take sight of 10 or more pies, all stacked half on top of each other: veggie pie, meat pie, plain pie, Sicilian--and there's usually a big Coca-Cola sign in the background, a bright red light glowing, and more often than not, a jumble of Italian words and accordion notes are humming along over the loud-speakers. But this one had none of those things. I stopped in my tracks. I looked up, "Artichoke Pizza" the sign said, with an ugly picture of an Artichoke in the center.

As I opened the door and felt the warm wave of heat from the ovens, I noticed something strange: There were only 3 pies.

"Can I help you?" A skinny guy with crooked teeth and a crooked nose smiled at me and turned his hat around backward.

"I don't know what I want," I said, somewhat helplessly.

"This your first time?" He asked, his Brooklyn accent thickened and an anticipatory smile widened.

"Yes," I admitted, blushing. I knew instantly that I should know this place. He could tell I belonged there.

"Then you gotta have the artichoke," he replied. He took the slice off the baking sheet and tossed in the oven.

"Ok," I said. I was somewhat relieved that someone had made a decision for me today. That should be a service provided to busy working people--so that they have one less thing to make a decision on in their day. It's the service my fiance provides to me most nights of the week. Bless her.

I'm not a huge fan of artichokes. I've had them a number of different ways and enjoyed them a fine amount, but I never get excited about them. I would never order an artichoke dip, I would never make a roasted artichoke in the oven, and I never add them to my salad at the open salad bar. All that said, I was excited to try the namesake--and such an odd one--of this odd little spot.

As he passed me the slice over the counter, a wave of cold air came in from the door and cooled my pie just perfectly for me. It was as if the pizza gods blew the kiss of a mild, creamy garlic bite into my nostrils and I marveled at this creation. I took the first bite, closed my eyes, and held it on my tongue in utter shock and joy. The warm waves of the ovens washed over me as my cheeks flushed and my muscles relaxed. In that moment, I was transported--off of that bar stool, out of that weather, out of that terrible day--and into a time where calories meant nothing, and the sheer joy of taste thrilled my virginal buds. The creamy Alfredo taste atop the soft, pillowy bread somehow infused with herbs (parsley? rosemary? I don't even know. I couldn't take notes any more I could simply sigh with relief.) The pizza man laughed aloud and gave me a nod, "You look like a little kid," he said. I felt like one.

His co-worker stepped up behind him and said, "Yeah, you could tell she likes it cuz she closes her eyes after every bite." They both nodded to me as though they approved of me as a member of their fan club.

"This has definitely made my day, I said; then continued reveling in my slice. Bite after bite, the soft cheese, the crunchy bottom to the crust, each gentle flavor woven together like the soft notes of a savory song. I finished.

The guys were in the back as I stood up and tossed my plate out. As I reached for the door I heard one of them call up to me, "We'll see you again, yeah?"

I nodded and took a sip of my ice-cold soda as the ice-cold wind blew in from behind me. "Thank you," I said, "that was really something special." And it was.

As I headed back to the office, I thought about the love, the passion, the magic in that slice, and it moved me. One, tiny soldier lept up out of my tear-duct and ran down my cheek--I think he was headed for one last morsel at the corner of my mouth.

Parisian Games

Growing up, my parents played a lot of really bizarre mind-games with my brother and I. There was a game where they made up passwords for any time someone would come pick us up from daycare (a friend, a relative, anyone outside the 2 of them) so that kidnappers (who perhaps looked like another relative?) couldn’t snatch us. There was something called the “what-if” game wherein they would pop quiz us at unsuspecting moments in case we were faced with a snap decision of critical importance. “What if a stranger pulls up to the bus-stop and demands you get in his car?” “What if someone comes to the door in the afternoon when you’re home alone?” “What if someone tells you we’ve been hurt and they have been sent to pick you up from school?” In retrospect, I realize that my parents were made completely paranoid by their own guilt for working too many hours when my brother and I were too little to fend for ourselves. The resulting neuroses have made us both wonderful writers, however extremely suspicious, and instinctively mistrustful. On the upside, we’re both shrewd decision-makers, critical thinkers, and slightly paranoid, guilty grown-ups. Children learn by example.

There was one game, however, that my dad has always played with me, that has made me a more open student of the world. I’m extremely appreciative of the nuanced differences in each experience I have as a result of this game. We’ll call it, “The Post-Mortem.” Each time I have an experience, one we haven’t shared, he asks the following questions upon my return:

1. What did you notice was different?
2. What was similar?
3. What did you learn?
4. What was better/neater/made more sense to you?
5. What did you not like?

Having just returned from Paris for the first time, an experience I have always dreamt of, I thought I’d play the game with the loyal readers of PWA. Forgive me my lack of culture, this was my first trip abroad except for one 10-day period in the UK as a teenager, most of which is blurred by the influence of my first taste of booze. Here’s one fresh pair of American eyes on a gorgeous, delicious place.

1. The first thing I noticed in Paris was that the coffee is delicious. There are no sugar-substitutes, there are no cream substitutes, and everything is espresso. Tiny, delicious portions—this would be a reoccurring theme in my Parisian dining. The second thing I noticed was that no one walks and drinks, no one walks and eats; people take their time, sit in cafes and enjoy their consumption. Here in NY, we all run from place to place with a Starbucks in one hand and a cell-phone in another. I didn’t notice anyone on a phone either. Granted, I was there for 3 days, and did mostly touristy things, but I was only offended by obnoxious cell-phone use once on my trip…and that was at an airport…stateside. And finally, speaking only a few French phrases is really enough to extend good will. If you’re patient, smiling, and attempting to communicate effectively, most of the Parisians were sweet and jovial. The aggressive English-speakers certainly offended the locals, but patience on both sides of the pond was easily obtained with smiles and nods.
2. Probably 50% of the movie posters were straight from Hollywood. Tom Cruise is (unfortunately) as big in France as he is here. And probably 50% of the music we heard was from the States. Every Light FM station world-wide loves Maroon 5.
3. I learned that the Parisians are extremely polite. They are not, however, gregarious. Rebecca tried to ask for a birthday candle in my breakfast one morning. The waiter stared at her blankly, blinking, until he repeated back to her, in a monotone: “In ze breakfast food.” Blink blink. Blink Blink. He just didn’t understand why anyone would want a candle in an omelet. At a Marriott here in the city, they’d probably charge you fifty bucks, but they’d sing and dance and put sparklers in your oatmeal if you wanted it. The French aren’t rude, they’re subdued…blink, blink. Blink Blink. Sigh.
4. All the bathrooms I used were unisex. There were no giant halls full of stalls. There were private rooms to be used by either sex. The sinks were communal outside of these rooms. This seemed painfully logical to me.
5. I did not like that taxi cabs had a six-euro minimum. I also didn’t love the abundance of smoking so close to food—all outdoor cafes are still smoke-friendly, too many folks smoking, clustered together is always unappetizing.

My trip was incredible, beautiful, one of the greatest trips I have ever taken. Being in the city of love with the one you love is beyond compare. And for all of their worried, crazy games, my folks did a great job. I am proud to say that I can give myself over completely to the weekend, to the adventure, and of course, to the one I love—all things foreign and wonderful. Paris, like Rebecca was once a complete stranger to me and is now one of my most delicious treasures.

Beautiful, powerful, brilliant.

Thanks baby.

Consider it Done.

I was cranky last Saturday morning. It was hot, I was hung-over, and after a grueling week at work, I felt weak with exhaustion. I didn’t want to go out. Didn’t want to sit still, so off to the Home Depot I went. My charming, adorable girlfriend was fresh as a daisy. Well-rested and beautiful, she threw on a summer-dress and appeased me as she often does by allowing me a few minutes among the hardware supplies.

“We should paint the living room today,” I said in a harsh tone. “I’m tired of brown, I want white! I say we lock ourselves in the house, put on a movie, and crank the A/C while we paint away!”

“Babe,” she said, “I don’t feel good about that. I need time to mentally prepare for something like that. Maybe next weekend?"

I glanced over at my lady love and smiled. She was in a cotton, black and white checked skirt and a tight black top. I shuffled on in my flip flops and ripped jeans and sighed.

“Maybe you’re right. Looking at all the supplies we’ll need to carry back is actually making me tired. Let’s just go home and sleep the day away.”

I felt as though I was dragging my own skin behind me in the wet summer heat. We got to the house and crashed. After an hour of sitting in front of the air-conditioning watching the Food Network, she rolled over and smiled at me, “Let’s have the best day ever.”

I actually laughed at her bright little eyes. How could anyone be so cheerful on such a dreadfully hot day. Even the idea of it made me tired.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go to lunch! If you could go anywhere for lunch, where would it be?”

“I don’t know; the diner is close.”

She smiled half-heartedly and agreed to accompany me to the diner where I picked at my food and tried to match her level of optimism.

“Hey,” she said after our food had gone. “I wanna give you your birthday present a bit early so that you can prepare.”

“Ok…” I said suspiciously. I tried to lift my spirits.

She slid a long thin box across the table and asked me to open it. I did, only to find a photo-shopped version of my passport with a funny picture of me on page one. On page two, she had a beautiful picture of old France, and the glaring words “I’m taking you to Paris.” On the next page was a picture of a luxury airline and the words “Business Class,” and on the final page a picture of our hotel.

I didn’t know what to say. There have been very few times in my life where my precious words have failed me, and this was most definitely one. I stood up and hugged her. “I thought you might want a few weeks to get ready—I didn’t plan anything but the flights and the hotel. We can plan our trip together!”

“This IS the best day ever!” I said. “We have to go to Barnes & Noble to get some books on Paris!" I realize a normal person would have rushed home in a fit of passion, but my mind went instantly to books. Oh writers.

“I thought you might say that!” She squealed!

And off we went to B& N.

When we arrived in the travel section, she tapped me on the shoulder. “What book is that?” She asked, and I turned around to find one lonesome copy of a book, nestled on an almost empty shelf.

I reached for it as though it were a mirage and chuckled. It was my book, my title, my name on the cover:



“What did you do, my love? How many dreams can you make come true in one day?”

“I don’t know,” she said grinning, “read the back.”

On the back she had printed:

“For Anne: the most talented, intelligent, creative, and beautiful woman in the world. Thank you for teaching me so many meanings to the word ‘happy’ Will you marry me?”

I gasped. I remember looking down, seeing her on one knee, in her black and white skirt, holding a tiny, velvet nut (yes, that's right, a nut). Her big smiled widened further as she said, "I'm nuts about you, will you marry me?"



I whisperered the word “Yes.” Into her ear. And looked down to find the most perfect ring on my finger.


We stood there, in the travel section of Barnes & Noble, hugging quietly for a long time.

I bought a few books on Paris (none on lesbian clubs—if anyone out there has a recommendation, I’d love to hear it!). And as we exited out into Union Square, a group of hipster kids holding guitars & tambourines shouted from across the street: “Hey Anne! Congratulations!” And they began playing the song I say always reminds me of Bec (Postal Service: Such Great Heights). As we walked toward them, they whipped out a dozen orange roses and congratulated us. We walked home—or maybe we sailed. I can’t be too sure.

That night, we were all set to grab sushi at the restaurant below our apartment with friends, but yet again, my socks were knocked off when we walked through the door to huge screams of "SUPRISE!" and a wave of warmth from my entire family and many of our friends. And my most honest friends said to me, "This was an incredible undertaking on the part of your fiance--how ever will you compete???"
And I said, "Consider it done."

Stay tuned for a future entry wherein I attempt to top this magical experience.

Foodie Cutie!!!!

Happy 4th!!!!!



Recipe:
2 cups granulated sugar
5 large beaten eggs
2 cups milk
2 teaspoons pure vanilla extract
3 cups cubed bread (any kind will do), allow to stale overnight in a bowl or cube & toast it up!
1 cup packed light brown sugar
1/4 cup (1/2 stick) butter, softened
1 cup chopped pecans or walnuts

Beat eggs, sugar, vanilla, & milk in a bowl
Add Bread & nuts & stir
Use softened butter to grease muffin large cups
pack mixture into muffin tins slightly below level.

Bake at 350 for 45 mins.

Sauce:
Melt vanilla ice cream & call it creme anglaise -- pour over top.

Add Whipped Cream & berries.

DIG IN!