Originally, the layout separated the cafe area from the eatery, giving the feeling that they were two distinct places–with different names, hours of operation and a small flight of stairs separating the two areas, this was not hard to believe. Hidden from direct sunlight and with lights that seemed to dim as the day went one, the cafe area usually carried a more muted tone than the eatery. The quiet subdued conversations being a wall that fought against the noise from the other side of the wall.

However, the dimness that I had welcomed as a writer is now gone. I’d always considered writing to be something that was done from dusk and onward. Almost like scrying into a bowl of water, it was about about trying to get clarity out of the murkiness. And submerging myself in it seemed like the best way to do this. I’ve never met anyone who felt that writing was something that was bright, or done without have to discern a concept, idea or sentence. Writing as enlightenment, often becomes the light with which darkness is banished, but that is only because it knows the nature of it so intimately.

However, though I may find the bright light attacking my right eye debilitating to the task I came here to do while he catches a few extra hours of sleep (battling is own light demons), I’m trying this new thing: not coming up for excuses to not write and read. I seem to have made a habit out of it, and hopefully I’ll be getting rid of the need to do that.

- Spider

A few weeks ago, standing in front of the Virgin Megastore at Union Square, my friend conspiratorially informed me that she had been taking classes at the New York School of Burlesque. Classes would soon be coming to a close, but she would soon be doing a performance. Would I be interested in going? I agreed—excited to get to see what my friend had gone so far as to take courses in. Now, while I had a friend in college who threw around the term around often, and it prompted the thought of carnivals (Carnivale-style) and bordellos, I wasn’t quite sure what Burlesque meant. Was it like a stage performance? Some sort of erotic/exotic dance technique? A bunch of girls walking about in corsets and being provocative? Somewhere in the back of my mind had the notion being both more respectable and less respectable than a stripper. I wasn’t too far off.

Standing in her favorite summer outfit, a bra and panties, Bob explained that Burlesque was made up of three parts: ribald comedy, strip and dance. And that the key difference between a stripper and a burlesque dancer (aside from the money) is that there’s just more to this form of performance art. It’s just as much about the overall piece as it is about the “boobs”. After this brief explanation, Bob asked us to clap as loud as we could, for the Burlesque World Premiere of Victoria Privates!

Hoots and hollers emitted from the crowd as the stage lights came back on, revealing a girl in her 20, with black hair pulled back into a pony tail, wearing a silk robe black heels and long black gloves. And though the Y (and a few X) members of the audience were fixated on the fact that this girl was about to dance and strip for them, I found that what was much more compelling were her eyes.

Yes, I know that it’s a cliché. “You can act it out with your eyes” you hear directors trying to tell young actresses to eventually get them to disrobe. But in this case, you couldn’t do much more while looking on stage but to be pulled in by her gaze. Holding everyone in the room hostage, she started seamlessly into her piece set to “Feeling Good” (Muse cover). And if I learned anything as the robe was throw to the side; it was that gloves are the most essential piece of the Burlesque trade. Next to pasties, seven performances in total that night (three by the same person) and three of them used gloves as one of the articles to be removed. While surgical gloves seem to not be the best so a seductive removal, long black satin is definitely in—as Victoria demonstrated for us all that night.

Revealing not only the amazing black and red outfit she was wearing underneath the robe, but also the body work she had all over, Ms Privates captivated the room every turn and twist of her frame. Leaving little to guess why Bob has gushed over her in the beginning, and knowing that she had not simply, as her teacher, trying to encourage a first time performer, but speaking the truth. And though she crowd roared and applaud as Victoria pulled off her top to reveal black and silver spinning tassels, it was evident that she had the audience from the moment she stepped on stage.

A Fanboys Moment

Hud went to Midtown Comics this Wednesday for our weekly comic book gathering. Though there are few titles that I read, there are the three or four books that I will make my way to midtown Manhattan to pick up. Having picked up our titles and browsing the shelves for possible future purchases, I mention to Hud:  

“Did you get my text about the BKV signing this week?” We start gabbing about the prospect of going to see a writer that we both have come to respect and whose projects we were holding in our hands at the moment. As we continue talking, we’re interrupted by a man on line to pay who says:  

“I was just walking behind him upstairs!” There is a look of understanding in his eyes, before he turns back and responds to the cashier asking if anyone is paying in cash. Jason and I look at each other, weighing our options. Next, we’re making our way to the back of the store and up the stairs when a short, bald man with a green button down shirt walks past us holding an action figure.

Jason does a 180 on the stairs, looks down at me and the man about to turn and points into the palm of his hand, mouth “That’s him”. “I think he saw me point at him,” Hud notes as we make it up the rest of the stairs. “Why did we just go up the whole way if we already saw him walk down?”  

“So we’d look less conspicuous?” I shrugged. 

We made our way back downstairs and got on line to pay for our books, noticing that BKV was perusing the aisles himself, and had been sideswiped by a fan. We kept our judgment of being one of those types of fans to ourselves as we walked closer to the register. Once we arrived, I noticed a strip of paper advertising BKV’s signing at Midtown Comics-East on Thursday. I proceeded to pass Hud the paper, and once we both paid, marveled at the fact that we’d both missed a huge poster with the BKV’s face on it, announcing the signing. 

“Fuck!” Hud says under his breath. 

“What?”

“I just pointed at the sign and turned and saw him looking at me point at the sign!” 

“Oh…” 

We made our way out of the store and downstairs to the street and laughed the moment we could hear the cars and people. We agreed that we had better leave before he came down the stairs and wondered about the two guys who seem to be following him, but lingered about trying to decide if he would remember us if we chanced a the book signing scheduled for the next day. As I started to complain about being hungry and lifted my arm in a gesture, I looked to my right and locked eyes with BKV as he walked out of the store. I immediately turned back to Hud and explained that we needed to know where to go eat, and BKV walked behind me and into the mass of people on 40th & Broadway.  

“Nice save. Where do you want to go eat?” 

“Anywhere that isn’t in that direction.” 

- Spider

He’s treated me badly, beaten me up, left me without a notice and more or less in the worst shape of my life. But somehow, I can never really leave him behind. After days left waking up with nowhere to go, all of sudden he’s on the phone promising me things, and I can’t deafen my ears to his silver tongue. The promises of late nights, skipping lunch to go to a last minute “meeting” and being showered with free gifts makes a fool of me every time. After an hour of teasing (and maybe a bit of oral foreplay), I end up in the same place I was before. Nervous, waiting for a phone that never arrives, until finally, went my withdrawal is almost through, I get a letter from you saying that you’ve left all over again.

Though this description may be a little bit of too much verbal masturbation, it is the best way I have of describing the experience of trying to enter the publishing world. Despite all the mistreatment, I can still feel my blood race when I get that literary world gets close to me. Perhaps enough is never enough?

It seems like I’ve been on a whirlwind of interviews. It makes it hard for me to keep track of where I’ve been, what jobs I was actually interested in, or where else there is to go from here. Mostly because, I’m not even sure where it is that I am now. I feel like a kid trying to find the pinata. After all the spinning around, I’ve been dropped back on the ground and may very well  be walking in the opposite direction of all the goods. However, there aren’t many, if any, guideposts to show me otherwise. (The lack of guideposts is something that shall be discussed in a different entry.)

And yet, at this moment, I still hold out faith in it. In him.

- Spider

Personally, I would argue that writing is a lot like going to the gym. When you do it often and regularly, it makes you feel great. You’re mind is clear, you feel more motivated and you’re ready to go back for more. However, if you stop going for a week, the sluggishness takes over and you find that it is that much more difficult to make youself interval-jog at 7 AM.

There may be some readers who find such a statement odd. Shouldn’t writing be like this incredible experience that just flows from the writer? All that a scribe has to do is sit at a desk with a pen, typewriter or keyboard and they’re off! I think that this view is rather uncommon, if not implausible all together. We don’t all just free write with an inner monologue like Carrie Bradshaw.

I’d argue that most writers don’t experience that easy of a time when they write at all. In fact, I think that for most writers, writing is a lot of work, and if done right, kind of painful. To bring us back to the gym metaphor, and probably not unlike what the mind actually is, writing is exercising a muscle (not that anyone hasn’t heard this before, but some may have not, so work with me here). And no, I don’t mean your hand . When writing, one uses their brain similarly to how a person works out their biceps with a set of free weights. And if you’re doing it well, you’re upping the weights and getting more strength out of it. Yeah, the finished product looks great, but it takes a hell of a lot of work to get there.

And I guess the point of this, was to re-exercise my brain. Damn does that feel better.

- Spider

Now, I don’t mean this in the same way that my minor hypochondria makes me think that I’ve contracted the non-existant Ploxodisium syndrome. I mean that when I heard the word, there was an almost prescient knowledge of it’s meaning and my deep understanding that I knew what it was. And while hearing the phrase made me better understand myself, I needed to hear it before I knew that I could identify myself (or that I could use it to identify a part of myself) underneath it. I need that connection again to explain my hunger for the entire planet.

In talking with my friend Stefanie, we came to understand that we both “want everything, no?” That is to say, we have an unquenchable desire to make goals and plans and strive for just about anything that we can imagine. Whether it’s our first-generation upbringing, our Latino heritage or whatever it may be, we both have it and are at its whim. However, having it’s definition doesn’t help without having it’s name. What would the name of the desire to be everything, or I suppose, the desire to dream of everything come from? It feels at times as though we would simply devour the world if we could. As if take in all the dirt, salty water and air would create the realization we’ve been going after.

However, if I have learned anything from philosophy, it is this: the problem with desire is that it only exists in the action of wanting. A person does not, cannot, desire what they already want. What could possibly satiate us after devouring an entire planet? Perhaps we’d simply move on to more heavenly bodies. Dibs on Jupiter.

- Spider

The second event for the season (the first being a Spelling Bee featuring notable people from the literary scene) is meant to bring together (literary) writers from all over the area. Give them a sort of fundamentals boot camp in what they can expect as they try to break into the writing world, whether you do fiction, poetry or creative non-fiction, it’s a chance to get with other like-minded individuals with similar goals as you.

- Spider

And let me tell you reader, no Disillusionment Charm or Invisibility Cloak borrowed from Potter could work any better.

I’ve been working for four separate offices for a little over a month now and it seems to hold no end. Their power either rises from the fact that they’re in a foul mood or that they’ve decided that whatever bochinche they’re about to spill is so important, that it will block my ears as they speak it.

This was the most recent scene:

I’m standing at a filing cabinet and am putting away some books. As I slip the last book into it’s place, I turn to see the head of the department walk into the office. I say good morning and he responds with something between a grunt, word and mumble. How one could manage so many different tones is beyond me. I ignore the near-response and return to my seat. He begins to speak with the person I share the office space with. I go about my checking my packets and reading e-mails until my ears pick up on:

“… and you should have Miguel go around the building and ask everyone for their copy.”

I’m sitting right there. Less than two feet away from him. I just finished saying good morning to the man and he talks as if he can’t see that I’m there. Once he began talking, I somehow spontaneously teleported out of the room so that he could speak freely.

At these moments, all I want to do is shout out in the name of self-respect and common decency, but I know that those are not currencies that run very well in the publishing world. Or any office for that matter. You’re built up on careful plotting and precise execution.

Personally, I’d worry more if my underlings developed cruel streaks, as should others.

- Spider

My friend Adam and I had gotten together to find him some new Magic: the Gathering cards (they get old so fast. Damned marketing schemes!). After finding our first location, Neutral Ground, closed for the day, we headed down to Forbidden Planet on Union Square. Finding exactly what we were looking for, we left Planet and tried to figure out a place to eat. I’d just finished designing some icons that I wanted to show him and upload, so I suggested the Cosi’s across the street.

I found out a few weeks ago after stumbling upon a Cosi’s on 8th Street that I love this latest chain-restaurant. Slowly growing for the past few years, more and more locations have been popping up around the city. I frequent one at one of my internships, and trek purposefully to this one between 6th & Broadway. Playing a lot of alternative/soft rock (reminded me of how much I like Dave Matthews Band), free wireless internet and it’s inception being the creation of a new kind of flat bread (that is delicious), it was destined to become a hit with me and my carb-craving self.

So we walk over to the Cosi and it turns out to be like anything but the places I’m used to. The lights have been dimmed down to the point where everything just looks like it’s a shade of gray with a hint of color. We have to wait to be seated, and once we are, for a waiter to take our orders. And though this is the usual deal at a restaurant, this is not how Cosi’s is usually run. After our drink orders are taken, we’re served our soda in plastic cups and were given a plastic knife and fork, along with out paper napkins. The internet would not connect to my laptop, and the waiter would disappear without checking on us.

I’ve only ever been to one other restaurant that does this, Atlanta Bread Company in White Plains. They do the restaurant turn over at night, but you order your food at the register and then stick a card with a number on a stand on your table and that’s it. That’s the most interaction you have with a “waiter.” you’ve already paid and you don’t have to worry about anything else. The lighting has been dimmed, but only enough so that they can bring out candles to put on all the tables. I sit down knowing that my chair is red.

Adam and I stared at each other, and then he started preparing to take the waiter down with the plastic knife. And though this would probably have been funny in any other situation (and I did laugh a good chunk that night), upsetting a vegetarian on a diet who usually does not like waiters (or waitresses) is not a good idea. Especially when he believes that the food you served him turned out to be the most unappetizing he could have expected.

It became my job to get us out of there, though I failed miserably at it as our waiter continued to dodge in and out of a back section and look anywhere but in our direction. Adam finally flagged down a waitress and asked her for our check. And though she said “Yes, of course,” nothing arrived. About five minutes, after many assurances to my comrade that we would be leaving shortly, our checked arrived with a big “Thank You!” written on the top left of the check. I can’t help but smile at it and point it out to Adam who gives me a look of disdain.

- Spider

“Lorraine. And this is Allan” Lorraine says, gesturing toward her companion. Allan makes no movement in response to his introduction.

“I’m Linda.”

“And you?” Lorraine asks, turning her gaze to me.

“Jose” I say immediately. I have an issue with giving out my name to people I don’t know, so I use my given name as a personal defense. I look down at her, wondering if she will pull some womanly intuition on me and read into my mind to discover that I’ve technically lied to her. But eventually she just nods and continues to discuss how much she knows about the free movie process.

“They’re happening all over the city every week. The key is to get on their mailing list” she says. I take this as my opportunity to go back to my graphic novel, or at least let it seem to everyone else that I am.

I’m relatively undisturbed until the ticket takers come. Thankfully no one gets thrown out of line, but there is a rush to make sure that everyone gets a ticket. Everyone begins flashing their computer print-outs and variously colored fliers. I try to remain still, but the line is reforming as people receive tickets. Eventually I get my ticket and move over, only to feel Lorraine’s hand on my shoulder.

“Let’s go, Jose.” The line hasn’t started to move yet, but it’s about to. I get ready, and try to figure out how to inform Lorraine that I do not want her hand, which has now moved to my arm, on me. But instead I remain silent and assume that it will disappear once we get moving. It does, though not until we’ve nearly reached the escalator. We go up two escalators, being reminded by event workers that we must have our tickets out or we will not be let in. I hold onto my little white raffle ticket and search for a seat once I make it into the theater.

I end up in the lower-top middle, a decent seat for this side of a theatre. The center seats have all been roped off for the press. As I made my way to my seat, I hear Lorraine telling the usher how rude it is to hold of seats for the press, even if it is a press screening. I make it into my aisle in time to hear the usher breathe out in exasperation.

I reach my seat and I think, Safety at last! By luck I’ve winded up next to Linda and her husband, who seem content to keep to themselves. That is, until the person behind us starts to speak and Linda turns back around in her seat.

“Hey! Didn’t you sit next to me at the screening yesterday?!” she says, a smile spreading across her face. Indeed, this  is the very same man. They continue to speak and I bury my eyes and thoughts deeper into Fables, wondering if there will be previews during this screening.

The press arrives and the movie begins, and we all laugh at the wonder of live action Disney. I forget that I’m alone and remember that I came because I thought I would enjoy the movie. An hour and forty-five minutes later, the movie ends and people begin to get up and walk out of the still dark theater. In the cloak of darkness, no one speaks to one another, choosing to leave in silence instead. I see my chance and grasp it, before Lorraine catches me in the lobby after and asks me if I want to join her and Allan for an after movie coffee. I walk past her seat, but she is so engrossed in the soundtrack and credits that she doesn’t even notice that I’m there.

I consider waving goodbye for a moment, but decide against it and continue to descend the stairs. I should make sure to bring someone next time, I think to myself. After all, human shields are a lot less noticeable.

- Spider