The world doesn't seem to know whether it wants to operate smoothly or bass-ackwards this month.
Regardless, I have some stories and some pictures.( Dick 2 )***( Photos from Hardy's Birthday )
All in all, a good time.***
Now, some boring text.
Working. Yes, I am working again (mostly, but we'll get to that in a minute). After quitting Starbucks (not a moment too soon), I reactivated myself at Update Legal - my old temp agency - and signed up for a new one on Ellie Nowak's recommendation. Within a day or two, I got an email from Morgan asking if I'd want to come in and do some database updating for his firm, Access Staffing. I figured it'd be good to tide me over until a proper temp job turned up, and agreed. I've been there almost a month now, and there are rumors that I'll be hired on full-time. While it looks really tempting (salary, health insurance, evenings/weekends free), it would mean getting rid of some autonomy and freedom of movement. I would like this job, but I don't think I'll be too destroyed if it ends up being only temporary after all.
Anyway, it's been a bit of a moot point anyway, since my office is at 41st and Lexington, and last week, this happened:
I didn't take those, as I was off last Wednesday (I borrow a desk from a senior recruiter who works from home most of the time), but Morgan and MAZ were both in and report the situation as having been quite scary. They closed down several blocks around the area until they could clean up the asbestos that had been blown about by the exploding steam pipe. Access reopened Wednesday, but Tina's been in... so I've been out of work for a week now, and itching to get back in as it's almost time for bills.
Story here: http://www.nytimes.com/2007/07/19/nyregion/19explode.html***
Other artsy stuff: I had an audition yesterday for the American Globe Theater, which did not go as well as I would have liked; I'll be surprised if I hear anything more about it, but we'll see. Much cooler than that is a PBS documentary on New Yorkers in World War Two that I am getting to work on. The producer found Phil Wood's letters through the amazing Heather (wickedlymerry
), and the long and short of it is that I am going to be reading some of them in the documentary. They've been out to California and interviewed his sister Gretchen, and even got in touch with George Smith for an interview, which may or may not be taking place at my house. I'm getting interviewed as well, apparently, so the living room is getting a total cleaning, and hopefully the camera won't pick up the fact that the ceiling is still a mess. Which brings me to my next segment.***
Normally, I'm pretty patient and understanding, yes? Perhaps too passive, on occasion.
There are two things right now that are really starting to push my buttons and make me angry.
1). The fucking roof. Our bastard landlords ignored an official summons from the New York housing department (who, by the way, declared our ceiling an "emergency condition" requiring immediate attention). When we called up the HPD to follow up our complaint, we were told that it had been closed (...) and that we would need to file a new one. This has been done, but as far as I know nothing more has happened. We are not paying rent anymore, and I can say this with the rest of the house behind me now.
2). Adopting a cat. Yes. We got the lead out, did the work, found a nice cat from a rescue shelter, bought all the necessary cat accoutrements, and paid the adoption fee last week. One would assume that we have a cat now, correct. Wrong. He's still in his cage at the shelter because the woman who has to deliver him (according to the shelter rules) is, pardon my French, a fucking useless old biddy who doesn't return phone calls, misses appointments, and doesn't remember who I am when I call her (and I call her every day) about the cat. Maybe she has Alzheimer's or some other totally valid reason for being a flake, but come on, if you're going to take responsibility for bringing a cat to a new home, DO IT, or get someone else to do it for you. Right now, he's stuck in the cage, putting an extra expense on the adoption people, and tying up a cage and food that could be used for another homeless cat. JUST. BRING HIM. UP HERE. The last time I managed to talk to the woman directly, she mentioned something vague about wanting to take the cat to the vet, which I appreciated, then said she had to go and would call me back. That was Sunday. Repeated phone calls have not been returned, and the cat was still in his cage at the adoption place when I went to check in on Tuesday. The adoption people themselves are almost uniformly unhelpful as well; the director hasn't been in for a few days, and either her people aren't giving her my messages or she's ignoring them as well. As you might surmise, I am not pleased about being left in the dark about the condition of my cat, healthwise or when-is-he-coming-home-wise. He should have been here six days ago.
Anyway, these two things are constantly running in the back of my head, combining with not having worked for a week (and pertinent potential financial disasters) and some other shit, all of which has landed me in a state alternating between about-to-be-pissed-off and sit-around-listless.
We'll leave it at that; nobody likes to read bitching and it's getting me riled up even writing about it.***
In better news: two great parties last weekend, both for old highschool friends. Brandon Schechter, recently married and back from Russia for a week or two, elected to have his 25th birthday in the form of a mini pub crawl around the East Village. This brought in some old faces (Ingrid Wulczyn from high school, John Bracken from reenacting, (Lt.) Mark Morrison, also from reenacting, pending overseas transfer I believe) and more of the college crowd. The survivors of Vasmay Lounge made it to 2x4 to watch the bartenders poledance to Metallica, stayed for last call, and then some of us (me) had a truly epic trip home. I managed to get lost in the Village (this hasn't happened since right after I moved here) while walking from the bar to the West 4th street station. I missed, somehow (I think I walked down West 4th itself, forgetting that the station stops are on 3rd and 8th. Oops.) and wandered around for a little bit, totally lost, before ending up at the 14th street 1 station. For those of you unfamiliar with New York Subway geography, this is like trying to go from Columbus, Ohio to New York City, but ending up in Portland, Maine. Luckily, the 1 also goes to my stop, and I somehow made it up there without falling asleep. I spent a good while on a bench at the station, trying to work up the ambition to get up the stairs, the elevator, the other stars, and the block to my apartment, and was dismayed to note that it was daylight by the time I got out.
This was a problem because I had to get out to Hicksville, Long Island, for Matt Stein's birthday. Stein was my drummer back in high school, and we did a lot of Drama Club shows together, but I hadn't seen him since Rob and I went to the Dream Theater concert our senior year of high school.
This was a surprise party, and they got him GOOD. I'd never seen him speechless before. So we had a nice BBQ time out on the lawn. I got to catch up with a few more old friends, and got on very well with Matt's fiancee Miranda (who is trying to get us to start a band again so she can be the Band Mom - that'd be fun).
(Just as an aside: EVERYONE STOP GETTING MARRIED FOR A LITTLE WHILE, THANKS. You're making me feel old.)***( Speaking of weddings: here's Wesley and Kate's, at long last. )***
I'm out. Dinner and theater date with my sister tonight. Need to shower off the lethargy.
And maybe call the fucking cat people again.