Lady Problems

I sent this picture to my ex the other day, after taking it, passing by a window on Bleecker St.

It’s been around 5 months now since we broke up (since I was dumped, since she left me, what have you) and often I question the effect she still has on me.

After seeing “Puppy Whistle”, Rob Malone’s film at the Anthology, that we were both in together, I was taken on some sort of awed walk by Dan Dickerson, of the sometimes-mentioned-here PA-style Dickerson Bros, who wanted to talk about my still uncomfortable reality “fame” and how I was doing in life.

When I mentioned how hard it had been for me to see her up there on the screen like that, pretty, idiosyncratic, herself and looking me, the me in the film, with loving eyes, her arms around me, Dan took a step back on 13th St.

“Really, bro?” He asked, biting a grin. “After all this time?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “It’s probably normal if you love someone like that.”

“Shit, I haven’t felt that way since high school.” The Dickerson replied. “I mean that girl when I was 16, she really fucked me up.”

And I nodded as we walked both back to the karaoke bar, as Dan kept smiling goofily and I just questioned what it was.

For sure, looking back at my history, I’m a case of emotional and romantic arrested development, having practically hibernated throughout high school in newspaper offices and libraries in order to keep the world and my own insecurities from hurting me.

Apart from strange experiences at a multi-program camp at the age of 12, my awakening to the idea that anyone could even be attracted to me didn’t come until I was 17 and a girl stuck her tongue down my throat while we were sitting on the sidewalk in front of the old Joe’s Pizza.

This explains, or rationalizes to me how I got this way, experiencing a high-school level heartbreak at 23, but it doesn’t wrap things up, not wholly.

As I told my therapist, after the sort of introspection that comes out of not having anything listen to while walking down New York City sidewalks, the times I call out for my ex, pronouncing her two-syllable name into the air or out-loud, softly, are not the times necessarily that I want her to be near me, or that I miss her touch or the way she talked about “floppy ears”, though those times come too.

Nowadays, it’s more the times that I think about the things in my life, I’m not proud or am uncertain of, the moments I regret or my anxiety about my future or lack of direction.

The rushes, or panic attacks, where bad moments flood my eyes and I’m taken out of body back to relive a time where I made that bad decision, where I embarrassed myself, or felt shame.

I realized, I say the word “Eva” where I used to say the words “I hate my life”.

When I used to say the latter phrase, it was like a ward or a dismissal against those bad moments, a disavowal of a time I made the parents of an autistic teenager uncomfortable, or when I made a glib remark at my old, haunted job. When I think about embarrassing myself in front of my agents, or just sitting alone, feeling alone, feeling like no one loves me or wants to be with me right now. That loneliness.

I reach out for the word “Eva” in those moments like I once reached out to punish myself with dismissal.

There was a sense, especially towards the end of our relationship, that seeing her, that having her near me, that knowing there’s that someone who loves and accepts you, that knowing it was someone you felt the same about, like that could be something that could turn around a day, or an hour, or a year.

That reliance of love, on someone else’s, on that phenomenon, is both symptomatic of my low self-esteem (the “miracle” of someone I love loving me) and a difficult to break as I focus on not backsliding into self-hatred in the wake of it all and the loneliness.

Still, it’s made me more weary as I go out in the world, even more a somewhat-misogynist than when Eva would sometimes comment on my stirring-angry statements about unrequited love, about the women who didn’t return my affection, or the ones who hurt my friends (or who I perceived to).

Now, I even shy away from people who seem to flirt with me without affection, who wear it as part of their bearing, or use it for friendliness or charisma. Walking from a screening one night, an old friend tried hanging off me, hugging my neck, putting her cheek next to mine. A girl on set stroked my face as I said good-bye, gave me a hug when I wrapped shooting, asked me questions and looked into my eyes. When I went to see a show alone and lonely last night at the theater, a young lady hugged me, recognized me, put her hands through my hair and invited me over with ebullience and charm and a smile.

In summary, I felt revolted at these experiences. I feel shame when I look back at them. Partly because of my lack of quick understanding of sarcasm or irony, of intent and intentions, of a need to to be loved that feels shaken and confused by these cues. But on the other hand there’s that proximity, that feeling that the dark parts of my life might be re-averted, at least temporarily. That something might come from you looking at me that will help me be better at least for a while.

But that’s not what those people were offering. So instead, I have nostalgia, as I call out my ex’s name, once or twice, as I walk down Bleecker St.

As I take picture of floppy-eared loaves in the window of a bread-store.

As I wish for the absence of love, or whatever it is that still binds me.

As I want something to replace it, this misogyny in me.

Eva, I don’t blame you, for feeling like this was too much to bear.

***

Alright, Chadd Harbold asked if I was going to write about this and I really neither care nor understand this, but I guess let me try to explain.

Jenna Jameson called me a “fuckknob”.

How did this happen? To be honest, I don’t even really know who Jenna Jameson is (weird enough to admit that probably means it true, guys).

Here’s her Wikipedia page (apparently she is pretty interesting), but I didn’t know most of that until just now.

So, anyway here we go:

When I woke up on Tuesday, April 12th, I did what I usually do, which is check my phone, my email and my twitter (and maybe my online scrabble games).

I took a look and saw that friend, Buckwheat Groat and extremely prolific tweeter Ben Perry had tweeted something dissing someone for saying Bethenny Ever After was their favorite show.

Now, regardless of what I think about my own situation and my weirdo relationship to reality television, I am ON that show and Ben knows that and so he shouldn’t be dissing people for liking it like that.

But Ben Perry is not just a prolific tweeter but a wordy one and, given Twitter’s limit on how long a message can be, instead of writing a full rebuttal and erasing his message, I just quoted what he said with a little online frowny face.

Now, as those of you who read the blog can tell, I’m not one much for “emoticons” so my use of one here was probably a mistake, but the intent was something like “Ben, don’t do that, I’m on that show”.

And in fact Ben got that message later tweeting something like “Well, maybe she’s not so bad for liking that show because my buddy Nick’s on it.”

But Jenna Jameson did not appear to get the message and ended up calling both me and Ben “fuckknobs”.

What is a “fuckknob” you ask (and probably rightfully so)? I have no idea, just as I was somewhat weirded out by being called one.

I tried to explain to her the intent of all of this, but it seemed to no avail. She went back to tweeting about parties and LA restaurants and posting pictures of her shoes.

Ben, on the other hand, engaged in a full-out twitter blast war with her, posting salvos and earning hate from her legion of followers including one particular message from her calling him “not worth my time, cocksmoker, go watch pornstar that actually care about your idiot driven awards” for whatever that means.

A couple people tweeted in my defense. Some people on Facebook appeared to celebrate the occasion. I mostly felt confused and somewhat violated.

I felt my twitter account mostly non-offensive and was unsure if she was such a fan of the show why she called me a “fuckknob” (or even, again, what that was). Probably she couldn’t tell or remember that my account was the same as that nerdy, chubby kid on the show wearing his ratty hoodie. I don’t blame her, I suppose.

Mostly, I just wonder of the significance of it all. One girl told me I should feel honored she acknowledged my existence, while someone else asked me if I “printed out and framed” the tweet. I just asked “Why?”

But still, I feel somewhat victimized. Even if my friends seem to celebrate my “fuckknob”-ery.

As it now had entered all of our lexicons.

***

The Kimchi Truck stiffed me the other day.

I thought I could do it all, heading out on an early Sunday morning, racing myself, to finish the first type-up of a sketch for class later, all so  I could go out to the Sunday morning flea-market where the Kimchi Taco Truck was bound to appear.

All I had been hearing about this place from blogs and chowhounders were raves and awed stories of 40-minutes waits braved for a fresh collision of flavors.

But they didn’t show up. Engine trouble, I heard, or something about the battery.

Still I was pissed and unleashed a marginally tamer twitter rant against them after talking it out with my friends at the Schnitzel truck and realizing it probably wasn’t their fault.

So I waited. I bided my time. I’d tried to find moments even in this semi-jobless free-floating existence of mine that I could be set to go down to wherever the truck was early enough to avoid a line, try it out and flee back home for writing.

Today they were finally  in SoHo, I had no morning plans, no shoots or dalliances, I took a shower and was there.

And was honestly, mostly disappointed. The Kim-Cheesesteak, the much-blogged about semi-centerpiece of the truck (apart from the nominal tacos) was merely an average sized affair, with a good roll, but not enough flavor or punch to distinguish it from the clearly superior “99 Miles to Philly”, who provided me comfort food and shelter from bad love-less nights when I lived up by Union Square.

Worse though were the “Spicy Rice Cakes”, which were advertised as grilled, but were in fact wanly boiled in a pot, served rubbery in a red-glop not even warm. They made me feel a little sick even.

Still, I felt like giving the truck one more chance (and was still hungry from not eating all of the rice cakes) and tried the “Kimchi Arancini” which, in fact, were excellent.

Three small Jawbreaker-sized golden nuggets came with a red-spicy dipping sauce and a sensible bed of lettuce to cool them off and to soak up the debris.

Dipped and bitten into, the balls revealed a melange of gooey parmesan, mozzarella and some red-pepper flavor, which made them hard to eat slow.

Perhaps the disappointment and the tease of missing out on the Kimchi truck so many days led to my let-down.

But at least I grew some balls and got some there.

(sorrythatsprettylame)

***

KIMCHI TACO TRUCK

Kimchi Arancini- $4.00

Location varies (Follow @kimchitruck on Twitter)

***

BONUS- WARM-WEATHER SPECIAL

Coffee does strange things to me, even still, but I do get a hankering for a nice iced, especially to lift me out of the drudgery of an unknown day.

Jacques Torres’ Mochas are known for their cocoa-fab excellence in the ‘hood, but they’re too hot for the upcoming weather and JT won’t be sporting their impregnable “Frozen Chocolates” for at least a couple more months.

Instead, try to finagle an Iced Choco-Coffee like I did. It’s an iced coffee with their milk-brewed hot-cocoa instead of regular milk.

It gave me a caffeine buzz with a mellow chocolate pillow-y sensation walking down a sunny King St.

At the same price as a nearby Starbucks’ regular iced coffee, it could for you too.

***

JACQUES TORRES WEST VILLAGE

“Iced Choco-Coffee” (off-menu item)- $2.18

King St bet. Varick and Hudson Sts.

1 to Houston St. CE to Spring St.

Little Blue Pill

“Alright, don’t get angry at me.” My father told me.

“What?” I replied.

It was a weekend day, my dad was dropping off a sandwich as he sometimes did, when I was too tired or hungover from the previous night, or just missed the experience of breakfast in bed.

Except I didn’t like breakfast, I like lunch.

There was half-a-grin on his face and some concept of embarrassment and some nervous humor. Why not? I’d been making fun of him for this for most of my juvenile-into-adolescent career.

“By the way,” He said. “This is not bloggable material.”

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” I told him. “What is this some dark family secret? I was adopted or something? I don’t think so, I look pretty much like you.”

“The hair on the top of your head is getting thinner.” He told me. “It’s not very noticeable right now, but it’s there. It’s started.”

I guess I was kind of taken aback. One thing I had never really had to deal with was a deficit of hair.

In high school, I wore my hair back in a pony-tail, reaching half-way down past my shoulders and when it rained, I’d let my hair out get it drenched and feel like a viking and when it was windy, I’d let it out too, and feel like I was facing into an airplane engine, blowing back.

After that, after my ex-roommate, ex-best friend threatened not to invite girls over, I cut it off, but I’ve still rocked something of a “fro” for most times since, pausing only for summers and maternal admonishments.

“I’ve talked to some friends.” My dad continues. “You can take a pill and it grows back thicker. That’s what I’ve heard. It’s probably as simple as that. I wouldn’t say anything, but if you’re looking for a life as a performer, it’s something you should consider.”

That conversation was about a month ago and my dad checked in with me, every week after, to make sure I still had that dermatologist appointment, still knew what I was going to say, ask.

His answer was the same as my father’s: I was going bald.

“You can fight it, or you can not fight it, but the genes are somewhere there.” He told me.

“And what should I do?” I asked, a question more loaded psychologically than dermatologically.

“Philosophically, you’re going to have come to terms with going bald.” He told me and prescribed me the pill.

I had a lot of reactions that day.

I had a date immediately after my doctor’s appointment, which in retrospect was not such a good idea.

I picked up my pill, it was ready immediately.

I took it before I went to sleep.

I worried about the side effects, which my dermatologist had said were “none”, but the internet said otherwise.

I worried about the extra blood tests my doctor ordered to make sure my pimples and my early “Androgenic Alopecia” weren’t caused by hormonal imbalances, a tumor, or something else, in my brain or my balls.

I thought about how my life would have to change again, like it did with my psoriasis, taking a pill every day, rubbing something in my hair.

Would it be trying to hide the inevitable or just fooling myself?

Or would no one even know?

When I  went to write this, I wasn’t even sure if I could or should, because I don’t see the issue discussed much. Baldness is something I made fun of my dad for (even though he isn’t) and was the subject of recurring jokes on “Curb Your Enthusiasm”.

When I talked to my therapist about it, she told me it was “yet another thing you cannot change”.

I would suggest, it’s the stigma of an old person, when I don’t feel that I’ve come into my own.

Sure, there’s the usual questions of attractiveness, of getting parts or women. I could say it was worse to hear now that I’m not with anyone, as opposed to when I was.

All I can say is that, it seems like some other things, to be somewhat shameful. To be something not discussed in public. To be something ignored or shelved until it’s obvious.

I talked to my dad and a friend or two about it, one of whom had been going bald since he was 19.

But though my mom offered me from sympathy, I knew she couldn’t understand.

Who could now?

I don’t know.

What I do know is this: whether I take my medicine, or I rub whatever gels or ointments or solutions in my hair, it’s a clock, like many others. It’s the same process of looking or acting older. Of accepting some sort of change in your life that comes with age.

And if it’s private, well, I’ve shared more private things on my blog than that here.

At my writing group last night, that always seems to lull and start between members working, or sleeping, or drinking or out of town, I told my fellows about “WTF with Marc Maron” , hyping it as I could, for a recent episode with character actor and Rob Malone-favorite, Stephen Tobolowsky. A gifted storyteller, Tobolowsky ousts even the talkative Marc Maron, known for his interrogative skill at drawing out the hurt from his interviewees. It’s not necessary in Tobolowsky’s case, a character actor whose many credits are tempered by his relative anonymity in them. From the background of movie sets, rock groups and growing up as a funny-named Jew in a Texas town, Tobolowsky offers everything from stories praising Mel Gibson to near-death experiences involving a life-saving case of arthritis.

What he also offers is the tale of his hair first falling out, when he was in college and the realization that his life might never be the same. A ham who got on stage in middle school and seized the “beima” while a pre-schooler in synagogue, Tobolowsky dreamed of fame as an actor, of Matinee idol parts, he’d now never get. It was change in his life and a disappointment he had nothing for. But he followed where his life took him, to a wife and two children, to a life in the theatre and film. To serious parts and quirky parts and many, many, many good stories and some bad ones. “The two sides of a miracle” Tobolowsky and Maron describe it.

It was fortuitous timing, that podcast, that no one at the writer’s group had listened to.

“I don’t know, think I’d still rather listen to music.” One of the writing group members said.

And the drinking and the laughter resumed.

***

“When are you going to get out of here?” Schuyler asked me, from somewhere behind where customers could see, down at the Angelika Film Center.

He was contemplating his own future, as he often does, especially now that he’s gone back to school, for filmmaking, no less.

“I don’t know.” I told him. “I don’t care about this job like I used to, feeling annoyed about my lack of promotions. I mostly just try to get through every day, without going nuts in some sort of visible fashion.”

Schuyler went to the same college that Eva, my ex goes to and I made a point of asking him if he was in the same section of the class he shared with her (“No.” He replied.)

But he wondered, as some of the employees there sometimes did, what my life was going to do, which way I was going and all that jazz.

“I’m here because it fits my life.” I told Schuyler.

And that’s pretty much all I got.

When I tell my father I’m “getting tired of serving people”, he always replies “I’m sure you are”, in an amused voice.

Mostly, I just spend my time reading, or trolling around, or trying to dissolve into work or motion.

Conversations tend to be one-sided with co-workers saying “How was your date?” or “You’ll find a pretty great lady soon.” and me just returning grunts.

I jump by my dating profile, checking it like my facebook, seeing who’s looking, who’s rated me high, who I can talk to.

I ran across a blog today called “It’s Not a Match”, which basically informed me that everything I was doing was bullshit.

This entertainingly written, personal, but annoyingly semi-anonymous account of one actor/writers foray into online dating includes such witticisms as “If you think you’re not desperate by going on these sites, spoiler alert, you are.”

It made me wonder about the time I’ve devoted so far and whether there was any secret to meeting someone, which of couse, sent me back thinking about how I met Eva and then, invariably, into sadness.

I while away days there at the Angelika, waiting, thinking, staring, being.

It’s somewhere to go and read things.

And live things.

And stuff.

***

Super Bowl Sunday was a downer, for a while.

A midshift I picked up at work left me there later than I thought and my friends had all already gone off to parties and bars, without invites or places to be for me.

When you’re a socially inter-dependent person, it’s tough to realize people aren’t that socially dependent on you.

I ended up at my parents’ home, a few minutes past a bad half-time I watched streaming on my phone, walking in the cold.

My parents were there sitting with clean plates and left-over salad and some chili and home made corn-muffins that my mom made, re-heated.

I sat there watching, talking, checking my dating profile and being in the warm with others.

I thought about last year, I thought about previous ones.

In some ways, as I’ve explained to people, Super Bowl Sunday was more of a holiday for my family then many other official ones, a time when we would get together as a family and with whatever friends would come along, to sit and relax and mingle and get kinda drunk and eat great food and be together.

This year, my friends weren’t there. This year, my father’s best friend and something like an uncle to me, had passed away and was sitting by the TV calling me “Nicky” with a grin. This year I didn’t have a girlfriend, or a fake girlfriend, or a friend’s girlfriend loaned, to provide some sense of hetero-normative adulthood.

No, this year it was just my parents and chili. And some good corn-muffins my mom made from scratch.

I felt warm in that living room.

And when I went home, it was enough.

***

Turkey Chili w/Sour Cream + Home-made Corn Muffins- free w/Super Bowl Sunday parental visit.

See your progenitors for details.