UBS has made some good investments.

I was sitting on a bench outside of Lincoln Center the evening of Wednesday, November 14th 2007. I had just purchased an egg sandwich from Starbucks along with one of their seasonal beverages, the Peppermint Mocha. (I highly recommend it.) As I was consuming my victuals, I couldn't help but notice Martha Argerich stroll slowly by with a male companion, admiring the sight of Lincoln Center at night. After a while the pair was joined by Charles Dutoit, and the three perambulated through the unseasonably warm November evening, speaking in French about who knows what.

Argerich and Dutoit had been in town with the Verbier Festival Orchestra, which was performing its last two concerts of an entire tour around the world in Avery Fisher Hall. I had planned to go not only to see my favorite pianist perform the Prokofiev Concerto No.3, but also to see some of my peers play in a great orchestra. Every year my school hosts the New York Verbier auditions, where many flock from around the country to try their luck at this orchestra of young professionals. My school is well-represented in the orchestra itself, perhaps because there is an emphasis on orchestral playing at my college, and also perhaps because the familiarity of the surroundings makes it a less stressful audition than traveling from across the country to play for ten or so minutes.

So Thursday November 15th comes, the day I'd been waiting for; the performance of Argerich with Verbier at Avery Fisher. The program was to the point: no formal overtures or orchestral rhapsodies to open the program or give it the traditional three-piece structure, but simply a piano concerto and a symphony.

The concert began with Argerich performing the Prokofiev Third Piano Concerto. Her entrance on the stage was much more graceful than that of the orchestra's, which still hadn't found a comfortable rhythm in which to walk on stage, bow, and tune. Being that about a quarter of the orchestra is American, it was no surprise that walking on as an orchestra at once, as opposed to sitting on stage and waiting for the concert to begin, was not very natural to a lot of the players. It gave them a very endearing and youthful character though, perhaps the only point in the concert where one might mistake this ensemble for being made up entirely of (mostly) awkward college students.

The orchestra accompanied brilliantly with Argerich at the fore, playing the most difficult passages in piano literature just as easily as I saw her taking an evening stroll. As always, she was rhythmically sure and produced a sonorous, mystical color from the keyboard. The audience roared enthusiastically at the end and applauded for an encore, which she so graciously gave, before retreating into her dressing room after about ten calls to bow.
After intermission, the audience was treated to a seminal work in the symphonic repertoire, Berlioz's Symphonie Fantastique. Not enough praise can be given to this orchestra's handling of the piece, which was superb. Dutoit's conducting was interesting to watch; I'll have to ask my friends in the orchestra how they felt about playing under his baton.

The first movement began with a sparkling ascending line in the harp, which was probably the loudest and clearest harp playing I've heard in any orchestra. The strings played as one great unit; they were perfectly matched in articulations and sound, although their personality was hard to pinpoint. They didn't have an overwhelmingly warm tone nor a bright quality to their playing. Perhaps this was a result of their being from so many different countries and schools of musical thought, or this could even be the new wave of sound from the up-and-coming generation of orchestral professionals. The woodwinds were particularly impressive. The English horn solo in the Pastoral movement was as chilling as it was beautiful, played with a rich vibrato and great musical ideas. The Witch's Sabbath dance, featuring the E-flat clarinet and bassoons, was out of this world. I mean, that girl really played that clarinet. The percussion sounded loud, rich, and full, and played right on cue with absolutely everything. And the brass! Wow. Although the players unfortunately just sat for most of the concert, when their cues came, they were right on. I can't express how brilliantly they played the French anthem in the middle of the symphony; even the musical idea of irony came across as their sound soared literally over the entire orchestra, something that even certain professional orchestras cannot achieve. The Dies Irae theme in the last movement was especially exciting as well. Their tone was dark, ominous, and their musical intentions were unmistakable. The entire performance of the Berlioz Symphonie Fantastique was the best I'd heard in a long time.

The audience was so appreciative that it clapped between every movement and forced the most likely tired orchestra musicians to perform two encores. To me, this is what orchestral playing is about. It is quite easy to become jaded as a musician in New York (or perhaps anywhere), particularly when you've landed a job that doesn't leave much room for creative growth. Even the greatest musicians can fall into the trap of orchestral playing, and so it seems a great idea to foster a sense of excitement in collaboration early on for young musicians. Verbier is quite a prestigious orchestra, but not just because they accept talented young players into the orchestra; they just eminate prestige. Everything they do they obviously care about, focusing intensely not only on expressing musical ideas, but learning how to play as a great ensemble. I think a few professional orchestra could take a cue from this fantastic symphony.

Strangers in the night.

The other day I ran into an old friend. You might remember her from my April 2007 entry.

I was outside of Avery Fisher Hall, walking through a huge crowd of ticket holders for the New York Philharmonic performance. As there were no student tickets, my companion and I opted to get a quick bite to eat at Ollie's. (He, visiting New York for the first time, later that evening understandably threw up from the shrimp lo mein.)

So we're foraging our way through the crowd, when suddenly I feel a small fist punch the side of my leg. At first I passed it off as an accidental brush, but when it started to sting, I realized it could only have been intentional. I turned, and standing against a large column at the edge of the crowd, was a small angry homeless woman. And she was glaring straight at me.

She and I became acquainted back in April on the 2 train. You see, I was talking the subway uptown at around 2am, when this troll-lady hobbled into the car with a few large bags and an unmistakable smell of cat piss. She looked at me, and mumbling some voodoo homeless mumbo jumbo, punched me IN MY BOOB. She just up and punched me! A nearby good Samaritan woman confronted the homeless woman, shouting, "If you punch her again, you're going to get one from me! You don't punch!"

What luck that two souls can reunite in such a crowded, lonely place as Manhattan. It's incidences like these that can make me truly understand the work of Jerry Seinfeld and Larry David.

E-mails should be sent to fucktheman@corporationssuck.com

I always knew it was coming; I mean, after all, the internet is too good to be true. And by true, I mean free. It seems as though a few giant telecommunication corporations have been looking into regulating sites on the internet to attract different customers as well as charge their customers money to access different sites. Because, after all, the CEOs of most of these companies have been eyeing that second multi-million dollar yacht for quite some time now, and well, who are we to restrict them from having the freedom to follow their dreams?

I respect Google in so many ways, especially in the way their CEO Eric Schmidt stood up for general interests at a conference with major telecommunication corporations just days ago. Read the article here.

Corporations are of course a large part of capitalism, and well, restricting the internet from non-paying perusers seems quite the opposite. Oh no, how UN-AMERICAN!

Anyway, save the internet. http://www.savetheinternet.com

God Save the Composer.

There are plenty of aspects of English culture that people admire: tea time, rugby, and David Beckham are just three things that come to mind. Mention in front of many classical musicians the name "William Walton", however, and you are bound to invoke cries of disgust and complaints about having to play one of his dreadful symphonies or having been within earshot of his Viola Concerto. My favoring of Walton is not on account of my being a violist or of my British ancestry (I'm not going to say it doesn't help, however), but due to my admiration of his creative genius as well as his ability to incorporate all the avant-garde and traditional tonal systems of the time into all of his works.

The year was 1922 and anything was possible. On the edge of an emerging modern world, Walton, an Oxford dropout, had joined forces with Siegfried Sassoon and siblings Sacheverall, Osbert, and Edith Sitwell, all revolutionary literary artists. Assocations with these folk led him to introductions to social circles including T.S. Eliot, compelled him to travel to Italy, and exposed him to such cultural phenomena of the day as American jazz and Diaghilev ballets.

Several artistic movements were flourishing at this point in time, and through his immersion in contemporary art Walton was able to incorporate all he saw into his works. Dadaism, born in Switzerland during World War I, was at its peak just as Walton was exploring the cultural world around him. Arnold Schoenberg had been sharpening his tonal (or atonal, for that matter) language at the time, although it would be decades later that his work would formally be noted as "serialism". (Leave it up to a triskaidekaphobic man to devise a system of composition that leads only up to twelve tones, is what I always say.) Paul Hindemith (who filled in for Lionel Tertis at the last minute to premiere Walton's Viola Concerto) had always been an expressionistic composer, but by the 1920s was developing a complex contrapuntal system that, by the 1930s, had led him to publish a book on his theories, The Craft of Musical Composition. In his music theory he ranked intervals on a basis of consonance to dissonance, applied in his compositions by using untraditional key signatures and a musical language that sounded anything but tonal. The expressionist movement by this time had been waning, yet its extremity and morbidity still held a voice within high art. Impressionism had also left its mark, and this being England, there was a certain fantasia-like brand that had impressed itself upon the composers of the era, not discluding Walton himself.

The beauty of Walton was that he settled not on one schools of art and music, but sought to incorporate several of them into his works. He arranged jazz scores in the 1920s before composing the work that catapulted him into fame, the Viola Concerto of 1929. Already this work demonstrated Walton's ability to utilize so many artistic and musical ideas of the day. Written without a key signature, the work begins ambiguously using the interval of half-steps, sounding almost like resolutions. The viola enters with a melody that can be identified by A minor only by the first few notes, swiftly modulating into several other keys with the aid of one pivotal note. The orchestration is thick and beautiful, and there is a distinctive use of sixths, mostly minor, throughout the solo viola part. Leaps of minor sevenths and ninths are also favored in the orchestra part, with sudden bursts of a comforting tonal melodic passage. When performed skillfully, the piece is able to convey a sense of nostalgia, of irony, and of excitement that eludes many other compositions of the day.

Symphony No.2 is also a fascinating work to analyze. As well as having absorbed contemporary, avant-garde artistic movements, Walton has now expanded his tonal language to fit Elgar's lush melodic passages, a hallmark of English composition. We also hear a bit of Mahler in his go-for-broke, thick orchestrations. It is possible that this work can evoke any number of things, and like Mahler takes the listener on a stream-of-conscious emotional journey. Works like this are certainly reflective of contemporary literary colleagues in his part of the world as well; I'm sure James Joyce would readily approve the sparkling harp and string passages juxtaposed by calm winds and intense, pounding brass and percussion.

Walton was a very successful composer in his day and won the support of many notable artists. He did film work (such as in films featuring the famed Shakespearean actor Sir Lawrence Olivier in Henry V, Hamlet, and Richard III), composed a piece for the coronation of King George VI (the march Crown Imperial), and was able to expand the concerto repertoire. Jascha Heifetz premiered the violin concerto, and later toward the end of Walton's life, Gregor Piatigorsky premiered his cello concerto. He also composed opera, such as Troilus and Cressida, which was commissioned by the BBC in 1947. He was even supported by his old friend Sassoon's own patron, the famed Lord Berners.

He enjoyed a deserved amount of success during his lifetime, so why the apprehension in programming or studying his works now? Perhaps it is the difficulty and senselessness of the individual parts within the orchestra that repels young professionals. There is nothing rewarding in their parts; the notes are hard and the musical concepts are even harder. Stand back from the rest of the orchestra and listen, however, and you are likely to be blown away at how many intricacies in the score are able to benefit the whole of the orchestra.

What about conductors, then? To conquer Walton's scores would be a great accomplishment. Firstly the manner in which these pieces are composed can be difficult to read; the page is littered with changes of meter and, like in impressionistic music, every musical nuance is dictated to a scrutinizing level. It is not more difficult than any of the Second Viennese School compositions, which seem to be more readily favored in concert halls than English music in general, however; but perhaps in our culture there is so much favoring of German music that afterward there is only room for a little French or Russian music.

At any rate, Walton was an exceptional talent whose musical work today is highly misunderstood and underrated. In spite of all the complexities in his works, they are still reminiscent of a regal, maritime Great Britain; perhaps someday Walton will join the ranks of such great English cultural movements as scones or the Spice Girls.

 

Out of senseless murders come lessons about the value of family and loved ones.

It is rare in my household to find magazines on the coffee table, so when I spotted this week's issue of People on the round glass table in my living room, I thought there must be a significant article in it that made somebody from my family in line at the grocery store pick it out amidst all the other magazines and impulse items. It turns out, there was. On the very front page is a photograph of a happy family, two daughters and their parents, dressed for what appears to be some sort of convention or special conference. Above the picture, large yellow letters have formed the words, "EVERY FAMILY'S NIGHTMARE."

All right, you have my attention, People magazine.

After consulting the table of contents, I quickly flipped to page 58. I observed the large photograph of a young fireman wandering through the shrubbery outside of a suburban home, the words "HORROR IN THE NIGHT" glowing from the page in white and yellow lettering. The presentation of the title was a bit tacky, I thought, but it nonetheless disspelled the truth of what happened in that Connecticut home only nights ago. One hapless summer afternoon in Connecticut, two white male convicts out on parole observed in a grocery store parking lot three women---a mother and two daughters---unloading groceries into a white Mercedes. The two men followed the Mercedes to its home, which the magazine describes as "a comfortable four bedroom house," a place that these men thought would be easy enough to burglarize. Later that night, after a pasta dinner and Harry Potter readings, with the family nestled asleep, the men entered through an open cellar door and, upon entering the house, proceeded to terrorize the family. They tied up the father and led him downstairs, away from his screaming wife and daughters, who were each either raped and/or sexually assaulted. At one point the wife was allowed to leave only to obtain $15,000 for the burglars at the bank to persuade them to leave. Apparently this was a 24-hour bank because she was able to speak to a teller, to whom she gave a note explaining the situation and asked that they notify the police.

Although their response was immediate, had the police arrived only minutes earlier, they would've been able to save the mother, who had been strangled to death, and her two daughers, who had died of smoke inhalation after the perpetrators had doused the home in gasoline and set it on fire to hide evidence. The father had managed to free his hands and escape from the cellar, hopping as his ankles were bound together, to meet the scene of police cars and fire trucks outside of the house he worked so hard to maintain. The two convincts had been apprehended as the police arrived just as they were fleeing the scene.

People examines the issue and raises the question, "How did this happen?" To me that's an incredibly asinine remark. Do they mean to ask, "How did this happen, these people were so rich and crimes don't happen to rich people?" Or perhaps, "How did this happen, this suburb is wealthy and only poor neighborhoods are susceptible to horrific crimes such as this?" OK, maybe those questions could've been phrased more poignantly, but I think the idea comes across. The fact is, anybody anywhere can fall victim to a number of atrocities, including cold-blooded murders. We live in a country that makes us believe our wealth and resources can shelter us, but that's simply not the case. That's why it's our duty to appreciate everything we have---family, friends, loved-ones---and, without living fearfully, realize there are injustices in the world and that nobody will live forever.

What's interesting about this family is that, fortunately, they seemed close anyway. The mother had been diagnosed with MS some years before; the children, particularly the youngest, had campaigned through walking marathons and different funds to raise awareness and money to combat her mother's disease. Being that her parents were both doctors, the eldest daughter had hoped to someday pursue medicine and lauded her father for his accomplishments.

Since the article mentioned the names of the family members and that the eldest daughter was to attend Dartmouth in the fall, I searched for her on Facebook. Her account hadn't been taken down, and it was eerie to see her photograph (she looked very beautiful) along with the words "Add ------ as a friend!" next to it. There are several groups made in her honor, including a group that represents a memorial scholarship that her high school, with the help of her father, initiated after the tragic event.

In war-torn countries I'm sure that many have learned the hard way to cherish those near and dear. In our own country, because of our comforts, I'm not sure we've entirely examined ours and each others' vulnerabilities, our mortality. Unfortunately the capture of these two sick convicts will not bring that Connecticut family back, but the events that transpired can teach us all to not take those we loved for granted, and to honor them and 
enjoy moments spent together.

RIP Amazing Coffee Shop on the corner of Bleecker and MacDougal

I found out today that my most favorite coffee shop in the entire world, on the corner of Bleecker and MacDougal in the West Villagey area, has been closed down.

This coffee shop was the only impetus for me to ever travel that far downtown. I'm more accustomed to the grid-patterning of the avenues and streets in upper Manhattan; and besides, all the concert halls are uptown anyway.

This coffee shop was unlike any place I'd seen or have come across since. They treat coffee like a fine wine; the barista is more than happy to explain to you from where their beans are imported (from privately owned farms where they're organically harvested and shipped to the US, less than a week old, and must be consumed within the next few days upon arriving), how to prepare the coffee (they even give you a French press coffee maker if that's your choice method of brewing), and they make some great espresso drinks as well. If you drink their fresh coffee it's unlikely that you'll need any milk or sugar because its flavor is so fresh and palpable; it also gives you a quick, lasting, and wonderful caffeine buzz.

Too bad I can't remember the name...but perhaps somewhere, in some nether region of Manhattan, there is a coffee shop that I can call my very own Mecca.

Elitism Challenged: How to judge classical musicians?

If it's one thing I don't like, it's gimmicky classical musicians. What prompts talented instrumentalists with otherwise great musical integrity to record a DVD of the Vivaldi Four Seasons wearing sunglasses, or pick up the viola to show how versatile they are as violinists, is beyond me. I don't want to mention any names in particular, but I'm sure if you think hard, you'll be able to think of a few people.

In fact, while brainstorming, the name "Joshua Bell" might pop up in your head. Dangerously flirting on the edge of middle-age (he turns 40 next year), yet still retaining that boyish American charm, Bell is most likely the dream of every classical music business manager. His good-looks have served him well with audiences but have proved to be a curse amongst "serious" classical musicians. I even found myself skeptical of his violin playing years ago, before I heard him play the Brahms Violin Concerto live.

I was working at a summer music festival selling tickets. Being a classical musician myself, I decided to head backstage to see if I could get his autograph. The only recording I had of his at the time was of Gerswhin pieces arranged for violin by Heifetz, which was entertaining, but it was always dominated by my Jacqueline du Pre and William Primrose CDs (this was before iPods). Earlier that day I drove out to Borders to pick up an album of his that had more substantial repertoire (and that also wasn't illegally copied). I tore his Sibelius Violin Concerto off the shelf in the classical music section, paid quickly, and didn't even bother to unwrap the plastic until moments before I saw him.

With autographing marker and CD in hand, I sought him out backstage just an hour before the concert. He's cute in person, but not as great-looking as people make him out to be. He looked worn, probably due to his extensive touring schedule, but that didn't stop him from being subtly flirtateous while signing in the inside jacket of his (or my, I don't know which) CD.

It was very gracious of him to take up his pre-concert reflection time to sign the CD of some jailbait girl, whom he probably thought was just another ditsy girl who swooned over his looks and his Strad. The most memorable part of that evening, despite meeting him, was the concert portion. His Brahms was unbelievable. Visually he is very captivating; he shifts his weight from foot to foot frantically with the music, he sweats profusely, and he makes these adorable faces when he reaches the high points of phrases.

I thought, "Yeah right, this guy might LOOK good---but what about when you just listen to him?" I closed my eyes and it turns out that he sounded even BETTER. His upbringing and marketing may have been that of a cheapened child prodigy, but he is no child performing parlor tricks on his violin. He is a serious, serious musician. To make sure I wasn't imagining things, as soon as I got home I listened to his Sibelius recording. Like most musicians today I'm sure he did a lot of takes and editing in the studio, so I'll give any naysayers that, but otherwise his interpretation and execution were spellbinding. I prefer that recording to the one of Heifetz himself playing Sibelius.

I was inspired to write this when I searched for the Orpheus Chamber Orchestra on YouTube. One of the first videos that popped up was Joshua Bell playing the Beethoven Violin Concerto, which my evil and skeptical inner voices told me to watch and critique. I honestly could not say anything. As always Orpheus was superb, and Bell was not only passionate, but completely honest. I also enjoyed his sound on the violin very much.

So, what to think now of Vengerov, who moves around too much without drawing out much of a sound? Or of Nigel Kennedy, whose poorly-chosen lifestyles have led him down a difficult path ending in modernized baroque music? Their accomplishments and enduring legacies must be attributed to more than great publicists and star-struck audiences---and I'm glad that Joshua Bell showed me that once again with his Beethoven Violin Concerto. Perhaps someday classical musicians won't have to rely on gimmicks to generate audiences, and perhaps audiences could take the time to appreciate musicians for what they have to give instead of their possession, or lack of, glamour.

Until next time.

Going to a music festival in Colorado until August....

How to Shower: Women vs. Men

This is the most accurate and profound piece on the differences between the sexes that I've seen on all of YouTube.

I've begun reading Virginia Woolf's first novel, The Voyage Out.

I haven't read any of her other works, and I'm ashamed because not only do I admire her writing, but I relate to her on a personal level. I'm sure a lot of people misunderstood her while she was alive, or even thought she was strange or psychotic. In our modern day perspective of artists who have died, it's a strange tendency society has to romanticize their struggles, personally and artistically. It's another strange tendency to condemn those who, living, exhibit some of the same qualities.

Reading a short biography on Woolf, I was not surprised to learn that she was mistreated at many points during her life in addition to enduring significant hardships. She is not unique in that regard compared to many others, but the artistic personality she possessed magnified these tragedies and made it impossible for others to understand her completely. Perhaps after her passing it was then that the people close to her realized what a significant person they'd lost and had wished they'd have treated her better.

Sometimes people have to analyze their behavior and wonder why they're being stubborn about something, and how that makes other people feel. Within this Woolf novel I'm reading, so far there are a few characters who hardly give a damn about the protagonist, except to examine her flaws and judge them. I'm sure we could all relate to this to some extent; I know I can. What I've always found to be most striking, in novels and in real life, is how the closest people to you can be the most hurtful and the least willing to make it right.

Hopefully anyone who's reading this already has in mind their own Virginia Woolf, somebody they love but have mistreated in the past, and is considering taking the steps to better their relationship with that person.

Escher drawing music.

The other day my friend and I stopped by our dear friend Andrew's apartment, nestled in an obscure neighborhood on the Upper West Side. Andrew and my friend both studied with the same cello teacher in college, but now that Andrew's graduated, he's had more time to focus on making music with a string quartet he and some friends formed while at school. I've heard them in performance playing Richard Danielpour's fifth string quartet and was very impressed; however that was two years ago, before they were picked up by a prestigious management company and given a spot at Lincoln Center's Chamber Music Society.

With a bit of coaxing (but not too much), Andrew let Alice and me view a performance of the Mendelssohn Quartet in A minor that they had done in Aspen, CO a year ago. Like their mentors, the Emerson String Quartet, these young musicians stand when they perform. I forgot to ask Andrew how it felt for him to be the only seated musician, but he seemed supportive of the idea generally.

Immediately upon hearing them one forgot whether they were sitting, standing, or running up and down the goddamn stage wearing headdresses. Their sound is gorgeous. I've known all four musicians from school; they're all nice people and they were all certainly the cream of the crop at their chosen instruments. They've done something that few graduates get the chance to do, however, and that's grow into true musicians by doing something they love.

They are easily one of the top young string quartets out there and I have no doubt that they'll make a strong mark in string quartet performance history. Adam (first violin) and Wu Jie (second violin), have shared some of the same violin teachers; this has perhaps assisted in their uncanny ability to balance each other and act as simply two violinists, without any hierarchy. It also doesn't hurt that they both have beautiful, lush tones and the technical mastery of their instruments to do whatever they damn well pleased. Pierre (viola) is a very nice guy, extremely intellectual, and an impressive violist. Sitting next to him in orchestras, even if it's a particularly lack-luster orchestra, is always a pleasure. He not only makes the viola part audible, but his musical ideas, sound, and phrasing are all to be lauded. Andrew (cello) is a licensed massage therapist in the state of California, and that's just what he does to the cello: with a lustful vibrato and graceful swoops, he almost massages the music out of his own cello.

If you want to see the future of classical music, look no further than the Escher String Quartet. I personally am not only impressed by their work but proud that my colleagues have already achieved this level of musicianship. You can visit them on their official website or just even just Google them. These next concert seasons are sure to be busy for them, so look for some of their upcoming performances in the NYC and metropolitan areas.

My little book review of 'Narcissus and Goldmund'

Hesse's Narcissus and Goldmund explores the journey into manhood of the puerile, artistic Goldmund and how it not only affects, but enlightens his dear friend Narcissus. Between Narcissus and Goldmund Hesse explores the differences between the logical and the sensual, the intellectual and the artistic. The book is heavily focused on Goldmund, who is sent by his domineering and uncompassionate father to a cloister, Mariabronn, in order to receive schooling and eventually enter the monk brotherhood. Immediately the cloister's prodigy, an analytical and intense young scholar named Narcissus, recognizes the great potential this Goldmund possesses.

Two life-changing experiences occur during Goldmund's student career at Mariabronn; one experience took place the night he snuck out with some schoolmates to meet some peasant girls and he received his first kiss from a dark gypsy girl named Lise, and the other experience was an intense discussion with Narcissus that Goldmund lacked a mother figure in his life. Compelled to find his mother, who had run away when he was a young boy, Goldmund escaped from the cloister and journeyed for roughly ten years through the countryside and cities of Germany. Living as a vagrant he led a rich and varied life, encountering many interesting characters, predicaments, and lovers during his journey. He finally discovers himself and he recognizes his calling to become an artist; the whole time he keeps the images of his mother and Narcissus in mind, making his decisions ultimately based on them. When Narcissus and Goldmund unexpectedly reunite, Goldmund's transformation into not only an adult but an artist has impacted Narcissus greatly.

As a female musician I found this an interesting and necessary book to read in order to further my understanding of males and what it means for them to become artists. As simply a female I was slightly annoyed by the amount of womanizing Goldmund did throughout his journey; however he did not describe women in derogatory terms, but lauded their physical beauty and individual graces. It is difficult to relate to a person who wants to roam freely to find new experiences, since I personally find that there are many rich experiences in life when you find your vocation and your mate. I suppose that is the feminine "settler" in me, but anyway, at least Goldmund didn't mean any harm by his encounters with beautiful women. He in fact honored all of these women and their individuality, even loved some of them, but the ideal woman in his life was really his figureless, ideal mother. It's a beautiful concept in a novel, but if that happened in real life, I'd be pretty pissed off and creeped out.

Goldmund had to experience a lot of "sin", as he considered it, in order to develop into a mature and worldly human being. His loss of faith in God was replaced with a deeper faith in humanity, in the tangible, in the arts. In that way he actually brought himself closer to a higher being and purpose, something that many of his former brothers in the cloister tried in vain to accomplish but could not achieve. Narcissus had achieved this same goal, although his means varied greatly from that of Goldmund's; through prayer and piety, Narcissus achieved the same level of awareness at the world.

Molinaro's translation of this book is very smooth and captivating. The translation was completed and published in 1968, at the peak of post-modernism; while still capturing the essence of Hesse's speech it is clearly an American rendering of the text. Powerful adjectives spot themselves within compact sentences, drawing the reader in and bringing him/her along with every emotional high and low felt by the characters. I have read poor translations of other Hesse books before, which seemed like the editor simply copied and pasted Hesse's work into altavista.com's Babel Fish translating tool. While such editions as Dover are extremely inexpensive renderings of works by Hesse, it is well worth the $14 to invest in this translation.

Last published by Picador in 1957, translation copyrighted 1968 by Farrar, Straus and Giroux, New York.

Morning news.

Interesting articles of the day.

Adam and Eve in the Land of the Dinosaurs -- NY Times
These people are idiots and they need to leave science to scientists.

Immigration Bill Provisions Gain Wide Support in Poll -- NY Times
How fair of American citizens to have a poll deciding who should come into the country. Just like the Native Americans had with the pilgrims. Well, at least people are more supportive of immigrant rights than I first believed.

Facebook Expands into MySpace's Territory -- NY Times
I have both, but I prefer Facebook much more by far.

Female Shark Reproduced Without Male DNA, Scientists Say -- NY Times
My fellow feminists, our day has come.

Young String Quartets, Learning From the Masters -- NY Times
Yes!!!!!!!!!!!

Bill Evans Plus Flamenco Equals Something Else Again -- NY Times
This is going on through Sunday 5/27. I'm going to try to check it out.

Babies Can Tell Between Languages -- India Times
Very fascinating.

Fingers 'a clue to exam success' -- BBC
OK, despite the fact that there is scientific research involved, I don't completely agree with this article. That or I'm a freak of nature and the length of my fingers along with my academic strenghts and weaknesses are exceptional to their study.

Heavy-drinking college kids make worse decisions --Reuters
No FUCKING way!


Sorting through a number of online periodicals has confirmed my devotion to the New York Times, the New Yorker, and New York magazine.

This post is for JDaug.

Let us all take a moment to recognize of the greatest living actors in film and television today.


Vincent D'Onofrio...*siiiiiiiiiiiigh*. I'm not one for girly fan crushes, but everytime I see the Law & Order trailers outside of my school building I always wait around, hoping to catch a glimpse of him performing a scene or something.

Even if you're not a Law & Order Criminal Intent fan (I, too, have a hard time getting into shows like those), watch just for D'Onofrio. He is so GOD DAMNED TALENTED. Rumor has it that he's living in Manhattan; hopefully I can find out where a few of his favorite restaurants or coffee shops are. That doesn't mean I intend on stalking him, I just want to heighten my chances of running into him "accidentally".

Let's oogle at some more pictures, shall we?

This was taken March 2007. WHO THE HELL IS SHE?!


Of course these pictures are not legally mine and are probably copyrighted. Does this mean I'll get in trouble for posting them on this weblog? I suppose that will only happen if I take credit for these photographs, or if I'm using them for profit. And of course we know that's not the case---unless somebody wants to pay me for posting this. I wouldn't mind the lawsuit.

UPDATE: That woman above with Vincent is his wife. I thought he was divorced; apparently they were married, separated, and then reconciled. That's sweet, actually. I'm glad everything worked out for them. :)

(I'm still intent on "accidentally" running into him in Manhattan, though.)

I'm not bitter, I'm just broke.

I've gotten a few requests by some people on Facebook to write more in this blog, so I believe I will. Thanks for the feedback, it was very nice.

Most people who write in blogs aren't very interesting people, myself included. What compels us webloggers to "blog", as they say, is a combination of two things:
1.) the tendency to be annoyed by the most trivial things and
2.) having the insatiable desire to rant about whatever is on the mind.
I was extremely annoyed by a snotty rich girl today, so therein I have found my topic. Oh my, where do I begin?

The entitlement that the children of the rich, particularly females, feel they're owed is ridiculous and would be laughable, if only their parents weren't so intent on perpetuating their delusions of grandeur. I was raised in an affluent suburb of New York City, where in high school the average student's car cost at least twice as much as that of the average teacher. These students were athletic, academic, polite, ambitious; their parents were mostly lawyers and stock brokers who liked to retreat to "the country" every evening after a busy day at work a little less than an hour away in Manhattan. These students also had a tendency to model themselves after pictures in the Abercrombie & Fitch or J.Crew catalogues. Nonetheless, they were hard workers like their parents, and many of them have gone off to great colleges not because of their money or whatever legacy, but because they worked extremely hard at what they did. I know, because I've seen their science projects go to state and national levels, I've sat next to them in AP classes, I've seen them perform in music, theater, dance, whatever. And I've seen their SAT scores, which were always phenomenal. Truly the future leaders of America type of deal.

Drive thirty-five miles south and the scenery changes drastically, and not just from the towering skyscrapers. In Manhattan the rich truly do live side by side with the poor; the difference of one block, even sometimes half a block, could mean an income of millions of dollars to welfare checks. I suppose for some upperclass folks in NYC this gives them some sort of validation, a confirmation that they've made it to the top and they've got it under control, unlike these unemployed scoundrels who would rather live off their God damned hard-earned tax money than get a job. Right on, asshole.

Private schools are abundant in Manhattan for a few reasons. Well-funded public schools are hard to come by, and magnet schools have a limited capacity. While private schools can provide scholarship to exceptionally promising young people, the majority of the school is funded by the wealthy parents of students. For only $25,000 a year these parents will gladly send their precious offspring to this school to ensure that their baby's college application reads the name of their private school boldly and clearly. And why are the odds of getting into a good college after private schooling like this so high? Well if the parents are capable of paying for this private
school, they'd probably be more than willing to spend twice that amount to send their little Johnny or Sally to Columbia University, just a stone's throw away.

It is no coincidence that America's most expensive colleges are comprised of graduates of the most expensive private high schools. I can't say I have anything in particular against that; I mean, it makes sense. What I DO hate is that by attending these overpriced liberal arts and high schools, and being reminded everyday that their parents are paid the big bucks to be successful in their field of choice, that their children are deluded into thinking that they're any better than other people simply for these reasons.

I've met guys from Manhattan whose parents are filthy rich, and some are assholes, but I haven't met anyone who was too difficult to stomach. GIRLS, however, are different. Perhaps it's because I'm a girl and there is often a sense of competition---"vagina envy", as I like to call it---between two hot-blooded young females. Rich bitches from Manhattan have it the worst. If you don't immediately begin kissing her ass, or she feels threatened by you in some way, she'll make sure you know it by acting like she's better than you, which is really the only skill she has. You're thinner than she is? Fine, well, she always liked fat thighs! You're prettier than she is? Well to her you're not, because nobody is prettier than her, no matter how much she resembles a farm animal. God forbid she finds out she can do something that you can't, or else from then on all you'll hear is, "What, you don't know French? Well I spoke it all the time with my nanny when I was a young girl..." In their minds these girls do everything right. They're highly critical of others, and the irony of it all would amuse me, if it weren't such an upsetting reality.

The parents of girls like these can have a variety of personalities, from being just as idiotic to humble people. The one thing their parents all have in common is that they have high-paying, sometimes high-profile careers; they live comfortably. In contrast their daughters most likely won't amount to anything; but as good parents do, they enrich their daughters with whatever they can in hopes that their offspring will become worldly, capable young women. Frequent trips to high-society dinners, lavish vacations, performances at the opera, anything to stimulate their
daughters' coked-out minds. How did they get so coked out, you ask? You can thank daddy for that credit card he gave his precious when she went off to college.

I just can't wait until the rug is pulled out from under them and, in their drunken and coked-out stupor, they look around and realize their lives haven't amounted to much. It's so sad that in the media the only girls we read about are heiresses whose fathers are oil tycoons or CEOs of major corporations, whose lives are so fabulous because all they do is shop and party. Sure that'd be fun
for oh, A DAY; but they have the resources, so why don't they make their lives amount to more than just spending the allowances their parents give them?

Amaretto Di Amore.

Italian coffee leaves a wonderful buzz. All you need is a cup of coffee, a spoonful of sugar, a shot of amaretto, and some whipped cream if you prefer. I prefer mine without. Combined with a laptop, a musical instrument nearby, good lighting and a big comfy chair, it has the potential to delude you into at least one hour of peace of mind.

My God, I just listened to Szeryng playing the Bach Chaconne. I really have no words for it. In fact I'm going to have to end this entry now; Bach has said it all for me. I encourage whoever is reading this to listen to Szeryng play the Bach Chaconne. It's available on YouTube.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oZ0K00aEqhE (Part I)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=COhIuDTDyzg (Part II)

A classic subway run-in.

On Saturday night I was punched in the right breast by an old homeless woman on the subway.

My friend Fernando and I were heading uptown from Penn Station at two in the morning when the incident occurred. We had just played in a string trio at Alice's cousin's wedding out on Long Island, which was the Korean side of the family. Alice is the product of a Korean mother and Jewish father, so needless to say she had an interesting childhood. As a child in school, while her friends were eating sandwiches with things like turkey or cheese or ham, Alice's mom packed her sandwiches with peanut butter and kimchi. You can see the impact this has had on her to this day.

Initially the bride's parents had been opposed to the marriage, so instead of that stupidly romantic feeling that one gets sitting in the audience during a wedding ceremony, there was an indescribable and rather uncomfortable tension amongst all of us. At the center of it all was the "marrying" couple, obviously feeling all too warm in the glow that the bride's parents practically radiated in disapproval. I noticed the groom had grown much thinner and looked anxious during and directly after the ceremony. The reception, thankfully, went much better. The food was great (guests were offered a choice of Korean or American cuisine), and despite getting carded by the bartender for wine (bullshit), I managed to have a good time. They played some great music, and Fernando and Alice busted a few moves for me on the dance floor. I couldn't believe how crazy these straight-laced middle-aged to elderly relatives directly from Korea could get while dancing, especially when Justin Timberlake's "Sexy Back" came on.

So after a great night of playing music, eating, drinking, and dancing (not to mention getting some
money out of it as well), Fernando and I headed back to Manhattan. Alice was staying on Long Island
at her parents' house.  We both have a pretty good buzz from the wine and dancing and all that, so we're standing in the middle of a crowded subway train just laughing and talking. Suddenly the train stops, the doors open, and I see this gray-haired homeless woman dragging two pieces of luggage and wearing all the clothes she owned, which made her look like an overstuffed armchair. What drew my attention to her was at first the overwhelming stench of cat piss that encircled her person, and then when I was able to examine her in detail, the bushy white and gray moustache that had sprouted above her thin upper lip. She had very large, wild brown eyes which looked horrified at the crowd the subway doors presented to her, and a small square jaw that flapped while she babbled inaudibly while trying to push her way onto the train. Truthfully there was enough room for her to move on, but for some reason she was having trouble. I was standing in the center of the car, a good five feet or so away from the door. I certainly wasn't in her way.

Well, something snapped in her, and suddenly her fist was flying in the air and landed with all its force on my right breast. Honestly it didn't hurt at all, but I was stunned into silence. Everyone in the vicinity was. A large woman who was boarding the train at the same time saw this and, outraged, began yelling at the old homeless woman. She yelled (literally), "DON'T YOU PUNCH PEOPLE. IF YOU PUNCH HER AGAIN YOU'RE GOING TO GET ONE FROM ME." She was going on like this, extremely angered by the situation, and I was even more stunned. I gave the large woman a pat on the shoulder in appreciation, but I'm not sure she noticed because she was so engaged in shouting at the homeless woman. Meanwhile everybody around me---the students from NYU with the thick-rimmed black glasses, the tourists from Bumblefuck, Minnesota, the gay Asian male escort in
the black leather pants, everybody---stared at the whole situation in disbelief; their focus would shift between the cat piss woman and the good (yelling) Samaritan to my reddened face. Thankfully I had to transfer at the next stop, so I did that quickly and quietly. I didn't know how to take the event. Should I have been shocked by the behavior of the homeless woman or by the large woman who
decided to defend a complete stranger on the subway at two in the morning?

Mars and Venus.

The most frustrating thing that I've had to deal with in recent years is men: how they operate, how to understand them, how to have them better understand me, and how to coexist peacefully with them. I have been in love with one in particular for a long time now, but for a while things have been rather unstable and rocky between the two of us. So what am I to do with all this confusion and these feelings, but to analyze the situation and see how best to solve this issue? I've come across a few useful articles concerning the differences between men and women, which in my opinion are what truly complicate a relationship if they are not properly understood and respected.

Generally these articles maintained that women are capable of thinking about and doing many things at once because of a stronger 
connection between the left and right sides of the brain, value relationships as most important in 
their lives, find communication and empathy to be essential parts of interacting, need intimacy and validation, and relate things and events rather personally to themselves and draw upon their own 
experiences. Men are more spatially oriented and logical as the left sides of their brain have developed faster, they are more prone to aggression, they are more career-oriented and base the quality of their lives generally more on the career, they do not connect incidences as much but tend to see issues as isolated, they are overwhelmed when confronted with too much emotion, they value trust and space from their women, and are quicker to become defensive.

Of course these are generalizations, but I have seen them manifested in my own life and in my own relationships. There are so many misunderstandings between men and women simply because each of their actions do not necessarily reflect well on their intentions. Let me explain. If a guy is busied with something and does not have the opportunity to call a girl, he may find this to be completely harmless. After all, he is still thinking about her, but just doesn't have the time to spare to give her a call and let her know that he cares. That validation is essential to a girl, and if it is not received, the girl will interpret his lack of communication as his lack of interest in her; because after all, if she were really that important, wouldn't he think of nothing but her, and want to hear her voice at all times of the day? Guys, however, are much better at focusing on indivdual tasks and highly value their careers, so it is with no personal enmity that they neglect to call the girl they care about as often as she would like. When the girl is upset over his actions, which she interprets as uncaring, and demands his attention, the guy in turn will interpret her actions as over-the-top and selfish. In his mind, she is not allowing him to take care of activities that are important to him, whereas in her mind he is not acknowledging her importance in his life.

So what is there to do? If two people care about one another, but one feels invalidated and the other feels too pressured to show validation, how is there a possible compromise? I suppose it'd be most important, first and foremost, to make sure that both individuals are willing to compromise. I can say I am lucky enough to have met somebody who is a rather understanding individual, but our biological differences have been making our interactions more and more difficult and complicated. To him I'm afraid that a compromise isn't worth it, and that he thinks I'd be
incapable of understanding his position on things. Truthfully I see where he is coming from, and I'm not intent on pressuring him into anything. Considering the circumstances, however, I need validation of his love for me and to know that despite his need for independence at this point, I am not a lesser-valued person or component in his life. Or, maybe I am. But I don't think so, really; but sometimes each of us jump to our extremes, as do most men and women when interacting with one another, and it's hard to see that both parties mean no harm towards the other.

There is a significant chance that it's not just our chemistry that causes our conflicts, at least in my circumstance, but judging from patterns I've seen it seems as though the thing that really makes us both miserable is that we have expectations for one another, but neither of us are aware of them and therefore are incapable of fulfilling them. In fact, we do just the opposite of what's desired.

So no matter what stage of life you find yourself in, I'd hope that if you found a person who was worthy of your love, that you'd at least understand the differences in the ways you both function and how to handle these issues without grave misunderstandings or conflicts. Anyway, here are the articles that I found particularly intriguing. If you type "differences between men and women" in Google, there are a lot of results that come up. Here are just a few that I read:

Understanding Men and Women - Research Paper
Differences Between Men and Women - A Survey (BBC article)
Differences Between Men and Women (Relationship-Institute.com)

Underlying rhythms.

At 9am I had to play as a ringer in a little kid's orchestra concert in the prep division at my college. The children were absolutely adorable. I don't think I've ever seen musicians look so poised and confident and virtuosic, yet at the same time play completely out of tune. It's normal for their age, I know. It's sad to think that someday they'll grow up to be my age, and have lost their innocence and faith in humanity completely. Along with the will to practice their instruments.

On the commuter train today (I had to head out of the city) there was a big commotion with some drunken passengers. I ran into a girl from my high school and she told me that before I boarded the train, there had been a fight between these two angry drunks, and one cut the other one with a switchblade or something to that effect. So before they allowed myself and others to board, the police had to inspect the train with a leashed German shepherd dog to make sure that everybody was behaving properly.

So the whole time I'm riding on the train, trying to read, and there are these drunk fucking teenagers sitting behind me cursing to the high heavens and picking fights with one another. At one point a man who was sitting a few seats away from me got up, walked toward the group of teenagers, and told them he was a cop and they needed to shut up. And right on cue, in stumbles the drunkest man I've ever seen in a public place, trying to keep himself as composed as possible before stumbling and falling into an empty seat.

For anyone out there who thinks getting plastered and acting like jackasses on St. Patrick's Day is truly representative of the spirit of the Irish, you can go fuck yourselves because you're a bunch of morons. I think St. Patrick's Day should be celebrating the true essence of being Irish: let the guilt Catholicism has imposed completely overwhelm you, and then spend all day at church. I'm pretty sure that's what my ancestors did.

Postcard from California.

It's been snowing all day, and it need not be said that it's a bitch to walk around outside. For a change cars are actually driving cautiously, though, so that's a plus. I feel this weather can only be appreciated when viewed several stories up in a heated apartment building.

So Alice took Joseph and me to a concert at the Phillipine Society building on fifth avenue. We got shitty directions so finding the place took much longer than expected. It turns it was the building that said "PHILLIPINE" in huge letters on fifth avenue. Who would've thought, you know? Anyway, the performance was nice, the reception had good food, etc. For dinner we trekked through the tundra of Times Square, searching for an Applebee's. I know, I know, Applebee's has disgusting food, especially in comparison to every other restaurant in the city. I had a craving for cheap American food, though, so I convinced Alice and Joe that we should eat at said restaurant. Applebee's wasn't too crowded when we got there, which was surprising considering the amount of tourists we saw outside. I remembered why I hated eating at places like Applebee's, though, particularly in Manhattan. For one thing, the only other people who occupy the restaurant are fat tourists from somewhere in the midwest. When these people come from Bumblefuck, USA to check out New York City (which to them is basically Times Square), they're drawn to the familiar restaurants from back home. All of the crappy franchise restaurants are gathered in only one part of Manhattan, and that's in and around Times Square. Any resident New Yorker knows that the no-name Italian restaurant on their block serves delicious food at a reasonable price, so who the fuck would need the Olive Garden or TGIFriday's in their neighborhood? But these are the only restaurants the tourists know, and so they flock to Applebee's and wherever else. The restaurants are placed in areas with the highest volume of tourists, i.e. Times Square, and then the prices on the menus are doubled because they know how vulnerable tourists can be. So, to make an unnecessarily long story short, I ended up paying $16 for a fucking quesadilla burger that normally would've cost me $8.50 in any other part of the country.

Fortunately the 1 train was directly outside of Applebee's, so we took it uptown. At 103rd street the train stood for a long time with its doors open, and over the loudspeaker was this unintelligible Indian man giving directions to the other conductors of the train or whoever. Nobody was quite sure what was going on. Alice and I were laughing like jackasses for a while making fun of the situation, when some lady across the aisle told us to be quiet so she could hear the announcements being made. Even in complete silence they were hardly audible and/or impossible to understand. So then we started laughing out loud even more.

After a while Alice was afraid something terrible was going to happen on the train, so we got out and stood in the platform for a little bit. Nobody seemed to know what was going on. A man was screaming in agony down at the other end of the train, and that was incredibly disturbing, so Alice insisted that we leave. When we exited the station and got up to the street, we saw an ambulance and a firetruck parked outside the stairs leading into the subway, but no personnel or victims or anything like that around. I have no idea what happened.

So, we caught the bus, which was a lot more comfortable than the subway car. Joe sat shooting the breeze with the bus driver, who told us to keep education an important part of our lives and to never do drugs. Joe believes that bus drivers are truly philosophers.

I found a fascinating article on PsychCentral.com about the stigma of mental illness. Hopefully someday this will all change. Read

A peculiar fruit.

Yesterday at two in the morning, Alice and I drove in her mom's minivan downtown to the West Village to walk around and get our minds off our problems. We scoured Bleecker and the neighboring streets for a while, searching for an all-night coffee shop; every business was closed, however, except for some shady hole in the wall bars and sex shops. There are certain types of people you only see in the middle of the night on a street in Manhattan; they stand on the sidewalk smoking, talking amongst themselves, commenting on the physique of passing young females. They usually look scruffy, unsavory, and they're 
probably high and drunk. We slipped by these 
people quietly. A lone balloon vendor sat on the sidewalk outside of an indoor parking garage entrance, calling out in a hoarse whisper, "Anybody want a balloon?" At two 
in the fucking morning. It would've been funnier if only for the fact
that this man was obviously making his living off selling these balloons.

I noticed an illuminated sign displayed on the door of a converted brownstone nearby that read "Psychic: Palm Readings, Tarot Cards", and such. Noticing the sign said "Open" on the door, I convinced Alice to check the place out with me.

"Are you serious?" Alice called to me from the sidewalk.
"I think she's serious," said some guy who was sitting nearby in a parked car. He thought he was pretty fucking funny.

So Alice followed me downstairs, and we were ushered in by a woman who must've been the psychic's adult daughter. She was carrying a basket of laundry in as she entered behind us, and asked if we wanted a reading. She had me sit on a stool at a small table in the entrance of the home. The air was stuffy from cigarette smoke, and around the corner in a room concealed by a suspended bedsheet a TV set blared, an eerie bluish color emitting the sounds of garbled human voices. A small cat, not more than a year old, wandered into the...psychic vestibule...whatever you could say it was. She let me pick her up and was purring, and when I placed her on my lap she settled herself comfortably. In walked the psychic; she was middle-aged, fairly attractive, made up with heavy concealer and eyeliner, dyed auburn hair, and had a faint accent reminiscent of some eastern European country mixed with the Brooklyn dialect.

She sat down and asked what I wanted, and listed the prices for me. I chose the cheapest, a palm reading, and she began. She examined my right hand. "You're going to have a long and healthy life." She scanned my palm even more, examining every crease and line. I don't know how she saw anything in that dim lighting. She started talking about how I have trouble in my love life, how I feel betrayed, how I'm having a hard time understanding and getting through this period. She guessed that I involved myself with something creative or artistic, particularly that involved the hands. That was pretty obvious though, considering I was wearing all black, I have long blackish hair, I usually wear black eyeliner, and my hands are very calloused and unmanicured and double-jointed. But at the time, it was very impressive. She kept mentioning all these things that applied to my life. Certain things could be construed as generalities with my age, gender, ethnicity, and socio-economic status. Other things applied indefinitely to my life, however, 
and as she said everything she spoke matter-of-factly. Whenever I reacted to something she said, she just gave a nod, 
as if to indicate, "It says it all on your palm." I tend to be very gullible so I am still having 
a hard time sorting this whole experience out in my head. Alice was standing behind me 
mystified by everything the woman was saying. When the session ended I tried getting up, and 
the cat began biting and clawing at my hand. I guess she was pissed that her resting spot was 
being disturbed. I thanked the psychic and nervously shoved my way 
out of the house.

So I'm completely nervous and freaked out, doing that stupid thing where I twist a strand of my hair over and over between my fingers. Alice wanted to go into a nearby McDonald's, so we went. She ordered an iced coffee, and I just sat there. I had basically lost my appetite. The restaurant had two groups of young gay black males sitting and chatting amongst themselves, all primped and wearing nice clothes, even sunglasses, despite it now being three in the morning. One tall slim guy was dressed as a girl, and the only way I could tell he wasn't a girl was because of his voice when he spoke. Otherwise his face looked effeminate enough, and his wig realistic enough, to pass as a teenage girl. The groups were sitting on separate sides of the restaurant, and I'm not sure if they knew each other or not, but they didn't seem warm toward one another. One of them came over to the table where Alice and I were sitting and asked if he could plug his cell phone charger into the outlet behind our table. He was a nice guy.

So Alice and I tried analyzing the psychic reading, the problems we'd each been experiencing in our lives, whatever. I don't think we really solved any problems, but it was good to vent. We were interrupted a few times by some interesting people, but the most memorable interruption was by a tall, gangly, pale white guy with light and feathery blonde hair and a moronic expression on his face. I saw him eyeing us from across the room, and before I knew it he was rushing toward us. He stopped, almost falling into our table and having to catch himself on Alice's seat, and said quickly, "So what are you about to do?"

What? What the fuck is this guy talking about? He wasn't very smooth at all. One of us asked him what he was doing, and he stood up
 straight and scratched the back of his head. He looked over to the counter and said in an 
exasperated tone, "I'm just trying to get some nuggets." 
I informed him that we couldn't help him, and he explained then that 
his friend was getting the "nuggets".

He was about to walk away when I asked him where he went to school. He already looked pretty hurt, because Alice and I were pretty obviously laughing at him. Well, I actually asked if he went to school in this area. He said no, and asked if I did. It was strange though, because he didn't say, "No, I went/go to Indiana University," or something like that. He simply answered no, which made me question if he had gone to college at all. That, and his stupidity and lack of social skills. The poor guy. He asked if I went to school around here.

"No," I said, "we go to school uptown."

"Oh, at NYU?" was his reply.

UPTOWN. IN THE NORTHERN DIRECTION. NYU was east of where we were, a block or two south. NYU is by no means uptown. Even if you were to go to Battery Park and somebody asked you where you went to school, you wouldn't say "uptown" to refer to NYU. I mean, it is uptown, and actually some people may say uptown, but to me uptown is above 50th street. Maybe if you were very far south, above 34th would be considered uptown. Anyway, finally this guy left when his friend had obtained their precious chicken nuggets. He looked really dejected, and it was funny. Usually I'd feel more sorry for people like this, but I don't have the patience for anyone anymore.

I'm going to have to travel around more parts of Manhattan in the middle of the night on a Wednesday and document what happens. It's like people crawl out of the sewers at night and roam the streets or something. Very colorful characters. Next time I'll bring my camera.