halx

My weekend began on Friday evening with the frustrating realization that I can no longer enter my apartment bulding by pushing on the door that says "Pull" on the outside. They put a stopper on it, ensuring that I will look like half an idiot for the next two weeks as I try to get used to this change of routine. Never the less, I woke up on Saturday morning with my laundry half-done, I was prepared to do something charitable. My buddy Jordan needed my help to prepare a building that his girlfriend had interited somehow for October 1st rentals. Seeing as Jordan had helped me move last year, completely out of the kindness of his heart, I was glad to finally square it with him. I hate owing anybody anything.

The building was a 3-story brownstone in Brooklyn, and it was old. Jordan had tasked himself with splitting it into 3 units. On Saturday, it needed yardwork and demolition. I wont go into details, because that's really all that Saturday boiled down to. The only reason why I needed to mention it in the first place was because the yardwork came back to haunt me. Actually, it is going to haunt me for a while.

I woke up this morning with about 20 mosquito bites all over my face and neck. I look diseased, man. You can throw me on a Hollywood set and bypass makeup 'cause I'm in the zone. This was sacrifice and I will make sure that Jordan will never hear the end of it. Just like his girlfriend never hears the end of how my favorite coat got stolen at her birthday party. It is really odd how I keep managing to mention it, even in passing conversation.

"Where'd you get your jacket? It's nice."

"Zara"

"Woah, hot shot."

"Same place I got my favorite coat that got stolen at your birthday party."

"...."

These things just slip out, I swear.

So what do I do with myself, now that my pretty little face is covered in welts? I go out in public and I make the world suffer with me. I'm a lone wolf. A lone, rabid wolf. After a quick basketball workout to get my blood flowing, my face was glowing red with stimulated blood vessels, and my bug bites were white swollen bumps. Who knows, maybe someone would ask me about them so I could tell them my story and they'd realize that I wasn't carrying the plague. Maybe there was a chick out there who dug leprosy. I calculated the odds and decided that I'd need to meet a lot of people in order to have a chance of meeting that one. Central Park, ho!

On my way to the park, I found a fallout shelter sign. Wait. Back up. Let me start this story about 3 weeks ago, when I was walking home FROM Central Park. I spotted a peculiar sign on the side of a building. It was a sign that signified the location of a nuclear fallout shelter. It was set against a cement facade of a restaurant under seasonal remodeling. Intrigued, I took a picture of it with my phone camera. As I glanced across the street, I saw another identical sign. This one was laid against a brick wall. I crossed the street to take another picture. The rest of the way home, my eyes were darting everywhere, trying to locate more, but I didn't find any.

I resolved to take pictures of these signs if I ever found more. Maybe one day, I thought to myself, I could stage some exhibition where my cryptic and alluring fallout shelter sign photos would draw hundreds of art snobs. I don't have a real message, I think think they're cool. They're throwbacks to 40 years ago, and they're still around in various locations. About a week ago, I was walking to my regular Chinese food spot for lunch when I saw another, outside of a center for senior citizens in the middle of Chinatown. I took a picture. With my count up to 3, I knew I had a chance of something.

So, back to Sunday. I'm walking down 64th and I turn my head and there is another sign. This one is behind a gate and it has a security camera below it, but I take a picture anyways. That makes 4. I didn't see another all day, but it is an important addition none the less.

I spent about 3 hours in Central Park, laying out on the grass, reading a novel that my dad had given me, and observing New Yorkers like curious animals. Especially the ones in bikinis. When this grew old, I moved on. Taking the train down to the West Village, I found my favorite cafe and set up shop in there. Nobody wanted to look at me. I couldn't get a single person to smile back at me. Curse you, mosquitos! By 6:30, I was out the door, looking for something to do by myself, where I couldn't scare small children.

I arrived at the theater in time to catch Man on Wire. This is a movie that I can't seem to get anyone excited about enough to see it with me. Well, I finally saw it by myself and I thought it was absolutely great! It is a documentary about a tightrope walker who walked on a line between the two WTC towers in 1973. I highly recommend this one. Its an inspiring (true) story about defiance, dreams, luck, and determination. It made me feel ashamed of where I am in life. I think I'd like to start chasing my dreams now. Nevermind that we're in a recession and I'm lucky to have a job.

So, what were my dreams, again?

I walked home from the theater, finding myself lonely. I called my parents in California, which made the stroll much more bearable. This story ends with me uncharacteristically ordering McDonalds while voraciously scratching the bug bite on the back of my right hand. I'll get through this somehow.