SAVE ME A SEAT

Posted on January 10, 2016 by xaviertrevino

subway

 

I was headed home from a hard day at work the other day laden with two bags of groceries. I got on an unusually crowded A train heading north, put my bags at my feet and grasped the handrail above the seats. I stood near the center of the car, where the four seats (Or is it eight? They are two-seat sets back to back.) perpendicular to the outer walls are, knowing that chances for getting a seat are better in this area of the train. If you stand leaning on the door your chances are nil unless the person in the seat right next to the door gets up, and then only if there is no one in front of that seat.
I’d gotten on at Canal Street, and was surprised at how crowded the train was. After all, it was well after rush hour, almost 8. I usually get a seat on this ride, but I imagine the train was late considering how many people were waiting and how many people were on the train.
A panhandler had gotten on at the same time, and now I heard him behind me giving his pitch. He was homeless, he was hungry, he only wanted to stay out of trouble. Any amount would help, any food would help. Then came the punch line:
“One day it could be you. One day it could be you…” He intoned in his deep baritone.
He was African American, in his late 50’s I’d say, and somberly dressed in worn nondescript clothing. He certainly wasn’t sleeping on the sidewalk.
He had a cup, a big white coffee cup like a Starbuck’s Venti cup sans logo, and he walked up and down the aisles with the “It could be you” refrain drumming into my head.

old train

Too bad we don’t have seats like these on the subway.

It was already me a long time ago, when I was young and stupid and did not know how to take care of myself, so I knew only just how right he was.
In this city of greedy landlords ready to pounce on a rent subsidized apartment at the squeak of a rat I’m not surprised at how many marginal people find themselves out in the cold.
He was probably an addict trying to hustle up enough for a bag, a rock, or whatever it is they sell in sketchy bodegas nowadays. But having been there myself (I never begged but did find a place to sleep on the subways) I pulled a dollar from my wallet and as he passed me reminding me it could be me I dropped the buck in his cup.
“Thank you and god bless you,” he said.
“Sure, no problem,” I replied, looking him in the eyes. Sometimes they don’t meet your eyes, whether from shame or guilt I’ll never know; but I do know that it’s not up to me to judge the guy.
The second the guy went by I noticed a man that was sitting on the outer seat of one of those four seat pods was looking at me intently. He was dressed in a chambray work shirt, pressed jeans, a sports jacket, and nicely shined black shoes with stylish square toes. His dark hair was slicked back with product. He was about 40 and looked like an Irish boxer. Our eyes met, and I couldn’t tell if it was admiration or distain in his eyes, but he’d certainly had an opinion in my giving the guy money.
At West Fourth Street no one got off, and also at Fourteenth. I banked on Thirty Fourth Street; a lot of people always get off on Thirty-Fourth.
As the train pulled into Thirty-Fourth, two people got up from the seats facing away on the opposite pod from where the boxer sat. I picked up my bags and moved to the seats, but a man who was closer and a woman who had just gotten on the train and lunged for the seat got there first. I sort of sighed dejectedly and set down my bags.
The boxer suddenly stood and said,
“Here, sit down, buddy.” I was really taken aback; no one had ever offered me a seat on the subway before, even when I was on crutches about 20 years ago after an injury.
“Aw, ah, no, that’s alright,” I said. “Unless you’re getting off at the next stop?” I added.
“I am, but that’s beside the point.” He answered. I didn’t ask what the point was, but I gratefully sat down. I looked up at him and said thanks. He gave me a little nod and looked away.
I was glad to be seated, but part of me wondered at the motivation. Should I have refused? I’ve offered seats to older men before and been rebuffed. Should have I rebuffed? It was still a long way to 155th Street, so I really didn’t dwell on it.

seats – Version 2

Empty bus.

Did I look old? I was certainly older than him. Did I look weak?
The train pulled into Forty-Second and the man started for the door. I looked up at him, caught his eye and said,
“Thanks again.”
“Don’t mention it,” he said as he turned to leave.
I had really banked on Forty-Second, surely I would have gotten a seat here, but the only people that got off were standing. And a new wave of people pushed on. Apparently the train was really late.
I got off at 145th Street to change for the C train.
“There’s another train right behind this train.” The conductor announced for the first time.
“One following right behind.” He added for emphasis.

subway magpies

Subway Magpies can sit anywhere.

The train left, and sure enough another A pulled in just as my C train also pulled in on the local track. The A train was practically empty. Too bad he hadn’t said anything at Canal Street. I would have waited.

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LONG LIVE ROCK AND ROLL

Posted on January 1, 2016 by xaviertrevino

 

 

come playLast night Danusia and I went to see a Liar’s Club performance at the Cornelia Street Café, and the performance was in the basement. A long narrow room crammed with tables with a tiny stage set against the back row, it evoked memories of 43 years ago last night.
That was the first time I saw the New York Dolls, at the Mercer Arts Center.
The room last night was more evocative of the second place I saw the New York Dolls, some forgotten basement in the Village with a tiny stage at the back and wooden pew-like benches. But the long room reminded me of that room, and remembering the Dolls’ performance there reminded me of the first time I saw them, which happened to be a New Year’s eve.
This is the ad from the Village Voice that prompted me to buy three advance tickets to see the Dolls that night:

NYD31_Dec_72

I had seen these little ads in the Voice for a while, with pictures of bizarrely dressed and coiffed guys calling themselves “The New York Dolls.” They looked more rock and roll than anything else happening at the time, and definitely more interesting.
I bought three tickets because my high school buddy Ritchie said he wanted to do something together New Years, and he had a girlfriend who must be included. I was between girlfriends at the time, so it would just be the three of us that night.
We prepared for the night by dropping the acid Ritchie had provided and the Quaaludes I’d brought along.
Being so equipped, I don’t remember a lot about the evening, except that the Mercer Arts Center was like nothing I’d ever experienced before. There was one room that looked like the Mokolo Milk bar in A Clockwork Orange, and the room we saw the Dolls in was like a big round ballroom and the stage was away from the back wall.

new-york-dolls-live2

I ended up on the stage behind the lead guitarist’s amp, and he kept giving me dirty looks on the occasions (which were many that night) that he came over to the amp to make adjustments on the head. Maybe he thought I was turning it down or dicking with the settings or something.
They were amazing. I didn’t know any of the songs, never having seen them before, but the music was loud, the songs were short, and it was most definitely Rock and Roll.
The singer was witty and charming, I don’t remember what he said, but I remember he was funny and engaging. He reminded me of Mick Jagger, and come to think of it, the lead guitarist reminded me of Keith Richards, except his hair was even bigger and poofier than Keith’s, an amazing achievement in my eyes. They were like a cheap imitation of the Rolling Stones, whom I’d co-incidentally seen at Madison Square garden the previous August. Ritchie and his girlfriend Diane had been with me for that gig too, and at that show I did have a girlfriend who dumped me when she went away to college in the fall.
Another thing that struck me was the way the Dolls and a lot of the male fans were dressed, they were all wearing platform or high-heeled shoes or boots. Some of the boys in the audience wore makeup to varying degrees, and really tight pants. I was wearing my standard hippie uniform of tee shirt, torn jeans, dirty sneakers and a field jacket like in the picture below:

me 72

At least I had the hair; my hair was long and pretty poofy, as you can see in the pic. The other memorable thing that happened was that at some point during the show, we were down on the floor in the middle of the crowd when this happened; Ritchie’s girlfriend Diane suddenly collapsed. The crowd ignored us, nobody looked down at the prostrated woman on the floor except for Ritchie and me. He was kneeling over her trying to revive her, and I leaned down to ask,
“Is she all right?” Ritchie looked up at me and said,
“I think she’s dead.” Oh. I was about to ask what he wanted to do about it when I saw her stir, and eventually he got her on her feet and they disappeared into the crowd. I think that’s when I made my way to the back of the stage, and I was able to concentrate on these fascinating new creatures.
Besides having short songs, which was a refreshing departure from the long boring jams with their requisite solos that you needed a lot of acid to endure; they also counted off a lot of the songs, the guitarist yelling “one two tree four…” (Yes, I meant to write “tree.”) The singer also said “youse.”
It was great, it was like watching the neighborhood kids get all dressed up and make some fabulous noise while looking all fabulous and sexy. Looking fine on television…
I was hooked, and the next day I started shopping for the appropriate pair of high-heeled shoes that I finally found at Jump ‘in Jack Flash on 8th Street. The next was to find really tight jeans and girl-looking shirts and long silk scarves.
I started going to as many N.Y. Dolls shows as I could, and I learned their names and the words to the songs.

I got my hair “styled” at Hair Power on St. Mark’s Place. The summer of ’73 I went to Max’s Kansas City for the second time, this time to see the Dolls. The first time had been the summer before to see The Sir Douglas Quintet of all people. I saw Eric Emerson and The Magic Tramps on a boat ride that summer, he’d been at the New Year’s eve show as well, and a year later he picked up me and my date at the Dolls’ Halloween show at the Waldorf. He bought us dinner at Max’s after the show and took us and a couple of girls he picked up to his loft after.
This was all heady stuff for a 19-year old, one of the most fun times I’ve had in my life.
Of course things change, the Dolls broke up, I never saw the Heartbreakers, did see David in various incarnations, got hooked on the Ramones and Punk Rock a couple of years later, Jerry died, Johnny died, Artie Kane died in 2004, all of the original Ramones are gone now too, but the music lives on. Long live Rock and Roll.

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THE BATTLE FOR FOLDING TABLE SUPREMACY

Posted on December 28, 2015 by xaviertrevino

 

 

laundry1Yesterday was laundry day for me, and I planned accordingly; leaving our apartment at just a few minutes past 7AM to beat the crowd.
I usually go on Saturdays, but I couldn’t get it together to get out the door early enough so I bagged it till yesterday. I gathered all the dirty laundry not already in the laundry bag, got out the 2 sheets of bounce and the zip-loc filled with tide and set off down 5 flights of stairs with roughly 25 pounds of laundry, about ten pounds more than average. What a difference a day makes.
When I got to the laundry on Broadway it was just past 7:15 and there were still machines available. There was no one there except for the proprietor, a Chinese fellow in his 30s. I selected two machines, one for whites and one for colors, and started sorting. A lot of the other machines were in use; the guy was doing the drop-off laundry. As I was loading my machines another man walked in, he emptied one of the small machines and proceeded to load a dryer. He’d beat me to the laundry, the first one in apparently.
Then another guy walked in, a young Latino fellow. He took the one machine available next to one I was loading, and wanted the one on the other side of my machines, and I got annoyed that he insisted on pushing past me to get at the one in the corner. I was also annoyed that he might be my competition for the one seven-foot long folding table in the whole place.laundry2

I must backtrack to describe the laundry, a barely 400 square-foot storefront with probably 14 machines; ten small, two large and two jumbo. There are 14 dryers as well against the opposite wall. The floor trembles when one or more washers are in spin cycle and I keep waiting for the day when it will collapse entirely.
It is small enough that there is always competition for machines, and the folding table, of course.
I try to avoid Saturdays there because once a month two women show up with a caravan of shopping carts piled high with black plastic garbage bags filled with laundry. They hog every available machine, putting as few as three items into a single machine. And of course it takes a couple of hours for them to fold what seems like a hundred pounds of laundry. They must either have a hundred kids between them or are doing laundry for a bunch of families for money. Either way my blood pressure rises when I lay eyes on them. One of the reasons I opted to wait for Sunday this week.
When I wasn’t working regularly I would do the laundry Friday morning, it was the best time as there was no one else there. But I went the Friday after Thanksgiving because I was off from work. I went around 9AM figuring it would be empty, but I didn’t figure on the laundry’s latest employee.
I remembered seeing signs in the laundry looking for a worker, and they’d hired a young Latino woman to wash and fold the drop off laundry. Using the folding table was out, and I had to content myself with folding my stuff on one of the three wooden chairs they have in the laundry. The Chinese couple that owns the laundry fold on a little table they have up front where they sit with the cash register and the supplies they have for sale, but the worker has to use the table, seeing as how the front is where the money’s at. I realized that if I wanted to get two machines at the same time, and an empty folding table I was going to have to get there as early as possible, no matter what day I go.
That’s why I got up early Saturday.
When I was married to my first wife we would do the laundry when we ran out of clothing to wear, and even after we had a kid it was a once every couple of weeks affair. Of course then that meant it was a lot of clothing, and a lot of time.
We would load the machines and wait till they were done, and then dry in as many dryers as possible to get out of there faster. That’s when the Cuban lady that ran the laundry in Greenpoint where we lived at the time showed me that putting all of the laundry in one machine for an hour would work just as well. Cheaper, actually. She also taught me how to fold fitted sheets with elastic on them. I used to just sort of ball them up but she showed me how to put two corners into one hand and then tuck them all together. It was like magic, and I’ve been doing it ever since. I also fold the socks the way my mom taught me when I was a kid.

socks2

My preferred method of doing laundry since I became single and then remarried is to put the laundry into the washers, go back home till it’s done, then return to put the laundry into the dryer for an hour and either go back home again or do some local shopping. It works pretty well, and I don’t have the stress of trying to beat somebody to the folding table, something that was the cause of a lot of anxiety in Greenpoint. And after, as well if I’m to be honest.
Now I just hope the table will be free, and by going early my chances are better for that to happen, or I fold on the chair. Not happy about that, but it will have to do at times.

I watch other people do their laundry, like the woman Saturday who had to push past me five times as I was folding (I got the table) to fill her empty liquid detergent container with water and pour it into the machine, I don’t know why she did that but I’ve seen others do it as well. My favorite is the single guys who simply stuff their unfolded clothing into plastic shopping bags directly from the dryers.
When I first started doing laundry here I left my laundry bag on top of the machine while I went home, and when I came back it was gone. There was a middle-aged woman doing laundry, the only other person there. I asked the Chinese woman if she’d seen the bag, a green nylon affair I’ve had for years. She went to her computer and pulled up the security video, but then I spotted the bag at the bottom of the other woman’s black-bagged lined shopping cart.
I reached in and pulled it out. I held it up to her face accusingly.

black bag

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought it was mine,” she offered. Yeah, right. Now I take everything with me and bring it back when I go to fold.
If you have a laundry bag, you wouldn’t need to carry your laundry in black garbage bags.

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ESTEEM

Posted on December 20, 2015 by xaviertrevino

 

me

I finally got my driver license in the mail. And I was surprised that it says just that- DRIVER license, not DRIVER’S license, like I’d always thought. It took 33 years from the first time I took a road test, but I did it. And it makes me walk just a little bit straighter. And not just because of that constant pain in the small of my back that forces me to walk chest out, shoulders back.
I can’t wait for someone to ask for my Driver license, I may just rent a car and run a red light so a cop can stop me and ask to see the license. Or apply for a store credit card.
The first time I was behind the wheel of a car was when I was really small, four or so years old. A guy at some parking lot on Smith Street in downtown Brooklyn drank with my dad, and he would let me sit in his lap with my hands on the wheel while he parked cars.
My parents did not drive, so ergo, I did not drive. It was hard enough for my dad to try and teach me how to ride a bike when I was 14. All my other friends learned how to ride a bike by 9 but I didn’t get my first bike till 14, a hand-me down from a family friend. After 15 minutes my dad lost patience and walked away and left me to my own devices. It took me a half hour of pushing off with one foot till I got the hang of it, so I essentially taught myself.

bike
When I was in high school, most of my classmates went to driver’s ed after school in our junior year. I never knew I could have taken the same driver’s ed course, it was just something that would never be for me, driving or having a car.
At the age of 25 a friend finally tired to teach me how to drive, in a big ford pickup truck with a manual transmission. I found it too frustrating and scary so I just quit.
A year or so later I got a roommate in the army who owned an El Camino and he taught me most of the basics, and we were doing alright until one day on some highway in North Carolina I made a turn off the exit a little too fast. I’m surprised I didn’t flip the car or hit anything. My roommate Neil made me get out of the driver’s seat and never let me drive the car again.
In 1992 my then wife had a friend who worked for the parks department and he told us he could get me a job as a parks inspector, but I needed a driver license in order to get the job.
The job was a lock, he was the one doing the hiring, but I had to get that license. I got my learner’s permit and various friends tried to teach me to drive in various cars, like a Honda Civic and a compact BMW. A guy I worked with at a shoe store at the time had this big Impala and he gave me sort of formal lessons for $10 a lesson. We would drive to the Sanitation Dept. course out on Ward’s island to practice.
All of this wasn’t enough since I failed the road test after trying to cross a street from a stop sign as a car with the right of way was coming. Didn’t even get to park or U-turn.
I remember I was so angry I got out of the car, slammed the door and swore I’d never do it again. Who needs a car in New York anyway? Who needs a license if you don’t have a car?
This summer a friend wanted me to fly to Florida to renovate an apartment he owns in Miami for him.
“I’ll fly you down, rent you a car so you can drive to get whatever supplies you need, and you can stay in the apartment till you’re done.”
“I don’t have a driver’s license,” was what I had to say.
When I told my wife Danusia she said,
“You should get your license anyway, whether you do the job or not. If you sign up for driving classes, I will pay for the first five.”
It took a month or so to find a school that would fit our budget, and get over the fear of doing it, but I signed up at the New East driving school in September. The Florida job fell through but I figured I’d get the license anyway.
Danusia always does all of the driving whenever we travel, and I always feel kind of guilty that I can’t pull my own weight and share in driving duties.
So I took the lessons, if you read this blog you know that story, and if you are reading for the first time you can scroll back and get the story of Mr. No and the red Corolla.
I failed the first test in early October. I knew I wasn’t ready but sometimes you get lucky. But when I failed this time, instead of getting mad and slamming the door I started planning for the next test. I took the examiner’s comments to heart and got a friend to let me practice in his car. I took a refresher lesson from Mr. No two days before the next test. And I passed.
The young woman who shared the car with me did not pass, for the sixth time. She was very angry and sulked all the way back to Manhattan. She said the same thing I’d said 33 years ago,
“Who needs a driver license in New York anyway?”

Fail
I gently told her not to give up, to keep trying till she made it. I know someone who took the test 11 times before she passed. And I would have kept trying until I passed. But that’s just me now, and I’m glad my attitude has changed.
Somewhere between 1992 and now something in me changed, I discovered that accomplishing things raises my self esteem and that in turn leads to even more accomplishments.
One of the first things I accomplished 15 years ago when I decided to get clean was to get proper ID. I had nothing, just a methadone program ID, which is worth nothing in the scheme of things. And that’s when I got my non-driver ID. I went to DMV, waited in long lines, filled out the paperwork, and got my picture taken.
Ironically, it’s that same photo that’s on my new license. They wouldn’t take a new picture. At least the address is current.

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PERFECT DAY FOR A ROAD TEST

Posted on December 7, 2015 by xaviertrevino

Waiting for Godot.

 

Today I became a licensed driver for the first time at the age of 61.
Today I saw Mr. No smile for the first time. He even shook my hand and patted me on the shoulder when I got out of the car on Chrystie Street in front of the driving school.

I have to say though, that I was totally surprised I passed after the running commentary by the DMV examiner.

“You gotta step it up” Was the first criticism. I was turning too slow.

“You have to wait till you’re in the middle of the intersection before you make a left hand turn.”

I parallel parked where she indicated, the thing that makes me most nervous. I thought it was a little flakey, but she made no comment and nodded once when she opened the door to check how close I’d gotten to the curb.
The “broken U turn” as they like to call it was also tough, I didn’t really have enough room but I got through it, again no comment.
As we were driving back there was a stop sign, there are only stop signs in Fresh Meadows where we were, and I’d already done three stop signs. Remembering my friend Ezra’s admonition to get right up to the sign I was creeping up on it slowly when she hit the dual brake on her side.
“You have to come to a full stop. It’s a stop sign, not a roll through sign.” I thought that alone was a fail, and wanted to say “I was going to come to a full stop when you stomped on the brake,” but I kept my mouth shut.

Then she made a mistake, I saw the street we started from and put on my right turn signal, and she says, “Make a left here.” Confused, I flicked the signal left when she suddenly said,
“No, right. I meant a right.” I recovered in time to switch back the signal and make a smooth turn onto the street and pull over. I put the car in park and waited as she typed in her little machine. She printed out the slip, tore it off, and said,
“You have a pen? You have to sign this, this is your temporary driver’s license.”

I was flabbergasted, open mouthed. I’d done it. I took out my pen and scribbled something resembling my signature since my hand was trembling ever so slightly.
I got out of the car and beamed at the dour Mr. No.

“You pass?” He asked.
“Yeah,” I said showing him the slip. He smiled for the first time in the ten or so hours I’ve spent with him and shook my hand.

Lineup

Jennifer, a willowy Asian woman in her 30’s who was also taking the test with Mr. No’s car was waiting across the street.
“Did you pass?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“That’s great! You gotta give me some of your luck!”
I put my hand up for a high-five, and she slapped it.
“You’ll be OK,” I told her.
Jennifer was very nervous; she’d taken the test five times already. Her turn came and she got a different examiner, a young woman with dyed magenta hair. Jennifer got in and they drove off. Mr. No motioned to me to come across the street with him to wait. We would get in the car when she returned and go home.
I decided to time her and set my stopwatch.
“Ten minutes,” Mr. No said. At 4 minutes 22 seconds the red Corolla came around the corner. Jennifer pulled up and I could tell by her face it wasn’t good news. The examiner was speaking to her, and tore off the little slip from her machine and handed it to Jennifer. Jennifer got out of the car and slammed the door. She got in the backseat and started arguing with the examiner.

Fail
The woman was very patient, explaining that Jennifer had made some unsafe turns and needed to work on that. She finally got out of the car and handed the paperwork to Mr. No.
He and I got in the car and Jennifer declared she was done.
“Fuck this. I don’t need a driver’s license anyway.”
“Don’t give up.” I said.
“Sleep on it, and think about what the examiner said, and give it another try.” We drove back to Manhattan in silence.
That was the way I felt the first time I failed the test in 1992. I got out of the car and slammed the door and sulked all the way back to Manhattan.
I’m glad I passed the test, and I have to thank my good friend Ezra for letting me practice in his giant SUV that’s a lot harder to drive than the Corolla.
And Danusia for insisting I make the effort. And Mr. No for being such a dour hard-ass.
Mostly I’m glad I don’t react emotionally to criticism anymore.

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REASONS TO BE GRATEFUL PART II

Posted on November 29, 2015 by xaviertrevino

 

turkey

 

 

I wanted to write this on Thursday, but I was busy getting ready for our small family Thanksgiving gathering. Then I was busy eating and chatting with our guests, Danusia’s niece Kasia and her husband Charles, and our friend Jennifer and her new boyfriend L.J.

Friday I of course wrote about my overnight trip to Northampton, Ma. to see Danusia, and yesterday I was busy catching up on stuff like laundry and shopping. Since I’m all caught up today, I can finally do my gratitude list.

work

The first thing I’m grateful for is having a new job that gave me the Friday after Thanksgiving off. I don’t think I’ve ever had a job that gave me that. And it’s a pleasant place to work and they buy lunch.

Danusia

Actually I should have said I’m grateful to be married to my lovely wife Danusia first, since her urging has opened up my life to doing stuff like this, writing and performing. And I’m grateful to my ex-wife for wanting a divorce, since I never would have met Danusia otherwise.

Likewise I’m grateful to THE TANK, as he liked to call himself, my previous boss who made sure I was fired from a toxic place of work. Thank you Mr. Tank.

I’m grateful to live in a nice apartment in a beautiful neighborhood where I can walk to the river and see sunsets like this:

sunset on the river

 

I’m grateful to live close enough to Fairway so I can get my favorite mineral water once or twice a week.

water

I’m grateful to have a good relationship with my son, Javier who lives so far away I haven’t seen him in a few years. Not so grateful for the distance. But at least I know when we do get together there is no drama or strained emotions the way my relationship with my dad was.

 

I’m grateful to be able to walk up five flights of stairs faster than some in my building and with a minimum of shortness of breath. I don’t have to stop to catch my breath at every landing.

I’m grateful for my health; most everything still works pretty good, if a little slower.

I’m grateful for all of my friends, people who helped me out when I was out of work by offering work or recommending me to others that needed work done.

I have to mention my friends Janet and Larry and in turn Elly and Eddie. Janet and Larry introduced me to Elly and Eddie who gave me a lot of work last summer.

Grateful to my good friends Jenny and Ezra, for all the love and Ezra for letting me practice driving in his nice car.

Grateful for all of my other friends who read this blog and say nice things about it, and are involved in my life in other ways. They know who they are and I’m glad they are in my life.

I’m grateful to all of the strangers who have stumbled on my blog and have read and commented as well.

I’m grateful I’m alive and not as mad as I used to be. You can take that as a double entendre if you like, but I hope you are grateful too. Or at least think about it.

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ONE NIGHT TRIP

Posted on November 27, 2015 by xaviertrevino

D on stage

 

Last Saturday morning I boarded a Peter Pan Bus at the Port Authority bus station for a five-hour ride to Northampton, Mass. I had to switch buses in Springfield to continue on to Northampton. Bus rides are never fun, but since I was going to meet Danusia there this ride was tolerable.
Danusia was in town to take part in a MOTH main stage, something she’s been doing for a while now. Danusia is the go-to storyteller for the MOTH at the moment.
Danusia is an actress, but I think she is a storyteller first and an actress second. I think that’s part of our mutual attraction, that we are both storytellers and writers.
Since it is the day after Thanksgiving I should say I’m grateful to have hooked up with someone that I have so much in common with.
Danusia loves being on stage, and she loves telling stories. And she’s good at it; most of her stories are a mixture of pathos and hilarity. That’s a hard combination to achieve.
We were at another of her performances at the Astor Theater where the MOTH had teamed up with The Blue Man group the week before and the program director Jenifer told me I should make the trip up to Northampton for the weekend. Danusia was keen on having me come along so we got a bus ticket there and a train ticket for the trip back on the same train as Danusia and one of the MOTH producers on Sunday.
The show was held at The Academy of Music in downtown Northampton, home to Smith College.

IMG_4362
It’s a beautiful old theater built in the 1880’s. Danusia was given the “Boris Karloff” dressing room, and a friend pointed out they’d misspelled Karloff as Karlof when I posted a picture on Facebook. But hey, it’s a small town, and misspelling is part of its charm.

Boris Karloff

Danusia and me goofed around taking pictures in the mirror with my new $23 deerskin gloves, on sale for “Bag day.” I have no idea what bag day is, but every single store on Main Street had a bag day 20% off sign in the window, and who can resist 20% off? There were some snacks and warming up noises from the other dressing rooms and it felt very warm and friendly. All the storytellers were in this together, and since it’s a Main stage there’s no competition and no tension.

D & gloves
The MC was Tara Clancy, a young gay woman I’d met once before when Danusia had embarked on her Main Stage career at The Player’s Club a little less than a year ago. Tara is very funny and high-energy and got the evening off to a great start.
Danusia was third up out of five storytellers, and I have to say that even though I’ve heard her jury duty story dozens of times and even helped in the shaping of it, I still laugh in the funny parts and feel the pain in the sad parts. That’s the beauty of her storytelling.
It was a great show, starting off with an African-American Army vet named Ray from Appalachia who told a story about trying to become a lawyer and failing, but succeeding in becoming literate, unlike his mother. There was a story about a man bonding with a Goth-punk son and a story about being lost in the jungle. The last story was an addiction story, one I could tell myself. All wonderful storytellers.

Me & Bogie
After the show we all went out to dinner, and I discovered that Ray had been a paratrooper too, we were both in the 82nd Airborne in the early 80’s. And Andy, the guy who bonded with the Goth-punk son had gone to the same high school and college as me, albeit five years earlier. Small world.
On the train ride back I was very glad I’d made the trip, and one of the reasons was that it was inspirational.
I went to the MOTH first and encouraged Danusia to try it, and I felt a little chagrined that she won a slam and had gone on to do this. But I have to remember that she did more work than I at this, so she is more successful at it. If I want to win a slam I’m going to have to do the work, I’ve got the stories, now I have to show up and tell them.

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HATERED

Posted on November 16, 2015 by xaviertrevino

tower – Version 2

I was torn about what to write today. I was thinking about writing about my new job, or about doing some gardening work for my friends Elly and Eddie today. Or about Danusia’s new career as a Moth storyteller. Yes, that can happen. But the one thing that happened this week that can’t be ignored is what happened in Paris Friday night.
I was working a piece for my writing class Friday evening, and I had turned the sound on my TV off as I wrote. Then on one of the occasions that I stole a glance at the TV I saw men with guns and helmets and bulletproof vests in front of ambulances and police cars. Flashing lights and people running back and forth. A glimpse of bodies on the ground and people running past them. I turned on the sound and found out it was something going on in Paris, France. A terrorist attack.
The big news this week was that “Jihadi John” had been “taken out” by a drone strike somewhere in Syria. That we use phrases like taken out to describe someone’s death speaks to how we as a society have trivialized death.
I’m sure the ISIS media are reveling in “taking out” 129 or so Europeans. So where does it end?
I guess it’s been like this since man separated into different tribes and races. Mine is better than yours. Tit for tat. And we though we were civilized.
There has been a great outpouring of support for the French people, a great show of solidarity between the western nations.
But what of the hundreds of thousands of dead Muslims in the last 14 years of war in the Middle East, killed by western bombs and bullets?
Don’t get me wrong, what these jihadists did is abhorrent, I don’t condone it in any way, but looking for revenge always comes back to bite you in the ass.
George Bush invaded Iraq not because they were behind the downing of the twin towers in 2001, because they didn’t do it; most of the 9/11 plotters were Saudi Arabian. He invaded Iraq because they had dissed Poppy. Almost as an afterthought Afghanistan was invaded because that was where Osama-Bin-Laden was supposedly hiding. Tit for tat, it looks like.
So now, 14 years later, 13 years after George Bush declared “Mission Accomplished” from the deck of the USS Abraham Lincoln people continue to die on both sides. The war rages on. Hatred breeds more hatred. Mess with me and I will mess with you.
The ISIS media is likening this war to a modern Crusade, and have identified France as the primary leader of the Crusades. They are right. The French kings used the Crusades to remain in power and expand the influence of France in the world, and to become a world power. Let’s not forget that the word Crusade means carrying the cross.
So this is a religious war, as far as ISIS is concerned, and as they see themselves as the righteous, and the underdog, anything goes.
We in the west see ISIS as fanatics, crazy people. Probably the same way King George thought of the American Colonists who rejected the Royal way.
They are people too, with an agenda, and with true belief. But since they are people, they have desires and feelings and dreams just like the rest of us, so there must be some room for negotiation, for dialogue, I hope. I just wish the killing would stop. I felt just as bad when the U.S. Air Force bombed the Doctors without borders hospital in Afghanistan last month.
We are all the same; one person’s death shouldn’t weigh less because of that person’s race and religion. But how do we get that across to the powers that be? The people with the money that should be building schools and hospitals instead of bigger, better drones. Building bridges instead of planning revenge. Too bad we are only human, because we are going to keep making the same mistakes and pointing our fingers over and over again.
Donald Trump supposed aloud in a speech the other day that if the people in the audience at the Bataclan Theater were armed there would have been a different result. He got a wild round of applause for that. I could only shake my head as to how ignorant we as a people can be. Just as ignorant as the men spraying AK-47 rounds into the crowd at the Bataclan.

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A YEAR AND A DAY

Posted on November 9, 2015 by xaviertrevino

mural

It’s actually been a year and a little over a month since we moved up here to Hamilton Heights from Brooklyn. I have to say it’s been quite a year for the both of us as far as growth, learning and new experiences in life.
I was just looking at pictures of our old apartment as I went through photos to pick the ones for this blog post, and I have to say I did feel a pang of sadness. That was a great apartment, a converted loft with a 13-foot ceiling in the living room and a big refrigerator and a 30-inch stove.

Our first day here.

Our first day here.

But I have to say that this apartment has a real full sized bedroom, probably 20 square feet bigger than the bedrooms in the other place. Bigger bedroom, smaller appliances.
This apartment is on the 5th floor, the other was on the 4th, but the climb somehow seems unchanged. At least the roof doesn’t leak here, something that was a running sore at the old apartment. I think that roof leaked with varying degrees of intensity for the whole 8 years we were there. And the heat’s good here, if anything we have to open the windows sometimes it gets so hot. And of course we don’t have to pay for the heat here like we did in Williamsburg.
I don’t miss the neighborhood, that’s for sure. We lived on Broadway, where the train roaring by every six minutes or so was a problem when you are trying to watch TV. I still didn’t get about half of what Tony Soprano said to people. That’s another thing I’ve discovered, the sound on HBO is about the worst in the world.
So here we can hear the TV better, but still have to strain to listen when we watch HBO.
Brooklyn Broadway was about the most depressing street in New York, with its dingy little shops and no trees at all.
Manhattan Broadway up here has its own assortment of dingy shops but the amount of green on the dividing strip and trees on the sidewalks sort of mitigate that.
The Hudson river Park is close enough that we spent a lot of time there this past year, riding our bikes or simply sitting by the water.

Sunset on the Hudson.

Sunset on the Hudson.

Then there’s the mural, of course. The mural at the top of this post was painted on the side of a building on Amsterdam right around the corner from us, across the street from the Trinity Church Cemetery. It’s homage to Harlem, featuring James Audubon and Leadbelly.

A tree in the cemetery was struck by lightning last month.

A tree in the cemetery was struck by lightning last month.

There’s not much good shopping up here, the cleanest Key Food a few blocks away charges even more than Whole Foods for most stuff. I guess when you’re the only game in town…
The Harlem Fairway is about a mile away; I rode my bike there during the summer to get my favorite mineral water, lugging a six-pack of liter-and-a-half bottles up the steep hill from the riverside in my backpack. Good exercise if it doesn’t kill me.
I work on 25th Street off of 6th Avenue now, with the holy Trinity of Fairway, Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s all within spitting distance of my job I don’t think I’ll have to make that bike trek much next summer. But it’s good to know Fairway’s only a short bike ride away.

Opening day.

Opening day.

We went to Yankee Stadium for opening day last spring, thanks to my good friend Ezra who gave me the tickets, and we actually walked there since there was so much traffic on the bridge. Home Depot, Target and Bed, Bath and beyond are just over the bridge as well.
All and all I really like this neighborhood; it has a more relaxed old-time New York feel than the triangle of Williamsburg, Bushwick, and Bedford-Stuyvesant had, with Woodhull Hospital’s ugly façade overlooking the even uglier and smellier Flushing Avenue train station. I hated that station, with the hospital and five different housing projects close by there were plenty of angry people and homeless people always hanging around. It just didn’t feel safe at times.
There are people that hang out on stoops on our street, 152nd, and it actually feels safer knowing that there are people around all of the time. Some say hi and some don’t but I think in Williamsburg everybody just looked at the ground in front of them as they walked.
My favorite part of this neighborhood is the cemetery, whenever I walk home from the C train stop on 155th and St. Nicholas I make sure to walk on that side of the street so I can yell hello to Ed Koch as I pass his mausoleum. Audubon is on the other side, on the 155th Street side and I’ve swung by to see him as well.
I know it’s a longer walk to the train, 7-10 minutes depending on which station I choose, the Flushing Avenue station was 2 and a half minutes from my front door, but hey, you can’t have everything, can you?
We have the A and C trains on St. Nick, and if you walk to 148th Street you can catch the D and B as well. If there’s a problem on those the 1 train is on Broadway and 145th, and if both are out you can always take the bus across to Yankee Stadium where you can catch the 4 or the D trains. Or you can walk if you are too impatient to wait for the bus. As a matter of fact, you can walk to just about anywhere in the city from here. And see some trees on the way.

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ROAD TEST BLUES

Posted on November 1, 2015 by xaviertrevino

test queue

I did not pass the test, in case you’ve been wondering for the past week.
We were advised to be in front of the driving school on Chrystie Street at 11:30 am, even though the test wasn’t till one. I was directed by the secretary to go meet Mr. No at the usual spot where we start our driving class over on Forsythe Street. I found the red Corolla, but instead of Mr. No behind the wheel there was a young Asian woman with dyed blond hair sitting behind the wheel.
Confused, I held up my 5-hour class certificate (required) and said, “Mr. No? Where is Mr. No?”
Flustered, she started to roll down the window when Mr. No appeared from Grand Street clutching a cup of coffee and a pastry. The girl got out of the car and Mr. No motioned me into the front seat. The girl slid into the back seat.
We drove in silence for a half hour or so, and ended up an a wide tree lined street in Fresh Meadows, Queens smack in the middle of Kissena Park, which is actually a bunch of parks strung together. We were sandwiched between a ball field and an elementary school campus. Only in Queens can an elementary school have so much grass around it.
Our car was the 5th car there, and presently another 15 or so cars drew up and parked along the street. All had either driving school signs atop or student driver magnetic signs on the front and back like our car had.
We wordlessly got out and waited.
I sat on a park bench and did my crossword while the girl sat on another park bench and scrolled through her phone. Mr. No wandered around picking up stray cans and bottles and depositing them in his trunk.

Mr. No
Of the 20 or so cars that drew up, only one other car contained a non-Asian person. The girl in our car, whose name not even Mr. No could pronounce was either Vietnamese or Korean, since Mr. No spoke to her in English.
At one six state examiners magically appeared at the head of the line. One walked to each of the first six cars, meaning we were one of the first.
“You got 2?” Asked the examiner after Mr. No handed him our certificates.
Mr. No motioned for the girl to get into the car.
“You go first.” The girl got in, and as I turned to go wait on the bench I’d staked out, I heard the car door open. I turned to see the girl exiting the car. She looked at me and said, “You go.”
I got in the car next to the examiner, also Chinese, though I’d have to say it was just the luck of the draw, since Two of the examiners were Latino and one was African American (the only woman) and the other three were Asian.
I buckled up, checked my mirror, and then he said,
“Turn on your engine.” I did so, turned on my left turn signal, cranked the wheel to the left, and gunned the engine, which roared in neutral. I forgot to put the car in gear. I put it in drive and pulled into the street.
“Go straight ahead,” he instructed. I drove to the corner, stopped at the stop sign, looked both ways and continued. So far so good.
“Make a right here.” I signaled and turned right.
“OK, in front of that car, pull up and park. Wow, so soon? It was a van actually, and the warning was so quick I didn’t have a chance to line up my car properly. I had to put the car in reverse and back up till the back of the car was in the triangle of my rear window, the way I’d been taught. Then I remembered,
“one turn” of the wheel till the car is almost at the curb, then “two turns” to the left to ease the car in. I got parallel to the curb and straightened out, and as I was pulling up to the car in front he said, “OK, you can pull out.”
We made another turn onto a two way street and he said,
“OK, do your U turn here. Three point turn,” in case I though he meant an actual U turn. I did the turn and headed back the way we came. There were a few more stop signs and turns, and twice I hit the wipers control by accident and couldn’t figure out how to stop them.
“Shit.” I said. I managed to turn them off and continued on. We were headed back to the start point, but on the opposite side of the street.
“Pull over behind the school bus.” I did so and came to a smooth stop. I put the car in park and turned off the engine.
The examiner had a little computer thing with a print out like the traffic control agents have. He sat and typed, and as he did he said:
“Your parking and U turn are good, but you hesitated too long on the turns. You drive too slow, and for me I don’t think you are ready for licensing.” He printed out his critique and handed it to me. I looked at it and I had lost 45 points. You can only lose 30 to pass.

printout
Mr. No and the blond girl came over to the car.
“You take her now?”
“No, go to the back of the line.” Mr. No and the girl got in the car and drove to the back of the line.
I sat on my bench and watched as some of the cars came back. More than one hit the brake hard and I knew they’d failed.
A half hour later our car was in 5th place again, and this time it was the African American woman who got in the car with her.
Mr. No stood with Simon, the owner of the driving school (who had a group of three in his car) and waited where I had pulled up. He motioned me over.
“Let me see paper.” I handed him my slip. He looked at it and read it.
“See! I tell you, too slow! No brake on the turn, understand?”
Simon chimed in, “You have to be more aggressive, Javier. He likes to call me Javier.
“Next time. You pass next time,” Mr. No declared. Thanks for the vote of confidence, I thought.
We all looked up to the sound of a car horn, someone was really leaning on the horn. It was a car not involved in the testing, warning none other than our red Corolla who was stopped at the stop sign to wait her turn. Mr. No and Simon both threw up their arms and said “Oh!” Simultaneously. I was betting little Miss with the dyed blond hair failed the test as well. If she had done OK it had all just gone out the window at the corner.
Simon and Mr. No shook their heads and exchanged a pained look.
We drove back in an even more profound silence than the one we drove out in, if such a thing is possible. But like they say, better luck next time.

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