No One Really Wants Everything

I've started the morning off right, at my favorite coffee shop, Gossip Coffee, and am sitting down to a coffee and donut treat.  I've always loved donuts, along with popcorn and soup they make the triumvirate of my favorite foods.  Today, I think I overdid it.  Gossip Coffee makes great donuts, like the Nutella Almond and the Cinnamon Sugar Cookie, however today I saw this in the display window:

It was called "The Everything Donut", and something about it said "take a risk on me!  I have everything!!!"  Of course the reasonable part of my brain said that anything that looks like it was made by a hungover college kid using every fucking thing in his pantry and fridge will taste just like it was made by a hungover college kid using every fucking thing in his pantry and fridge.  But I couldn't help myself.  My nostalgia for the St Patty's day just passed was strong, and there were "Lucky Charms" in there, and green frosting.  And the part of me that missed out on Mardi Gras was taken in by the little edible stars and the multi-colored glitter of a King Cake!  And the woman behind the counter said the customers had liked it.  So I leapt.  And when I got it home in front of my laptop to write, and I took a bite...I regretted it.  It is the grossest combo of flavors imaginable.  Strawberry glaze, chocolate glaze, sprinkles, added to the previously mentioned ingredients...bleh.  BLEH!!!!!  I just wish someone had save me from myself.  Like that coffee server!! She had to know it was disgusting, and she didn't whisper an advisory warning, she didn't give me a subtle grimace or shake her head.  She beckoned me on like a siren on a heap of sugary garbage.  

Oh well.  I guess I'd say I learned a lesson, but this won't stop me from being adventurous in my choices next time.  Maybe I learned to trust my instincts when it comes to this.  In the meantime, as much as I hate tossing this colorful confection, I will.  

But please don't let this keep you from going to Gossip Coffee and trying their coffee, donuts, or flavored rice puddings.  It's an awesome shop, so cozy and beautiful, with a friendly shop and a number of comfy seats and electrical ports (though it DOES get crowded on weekends, like all places around here, so check-in early).  And the donuts are my favorite in town, just not this particular donut.  

A Great Day For The Irish!

Nowhere I've lived thus far has felt like a more appropriate place to be celebrating St. Patrick's Day, than right here in New York City.  When I awoke this morning I donned my green checked button snap shirt and headed out to save a little cash on a pair of dress pants, so I have more office clothing options when I'm making a little "green" (see what I did there?).  Banana Republic had a coupon for the holiday, and on my way there I saw more people in green than you can imagine.  And  when on the subway, there were about eight or nine New York firemen, older gents in pressed uniforms headed to the parade.  It brought a real sense of excitement to me, even though I wasn't participating.  On the street there were groups of people decked out in full regalia, and it was really exciting to see so much buzz for a holiday that prior to living here had just felt like a great excuse for people to put on horrible accents and drink a shit ton of Guinness.

Me?  Last night I baked some Irish soda bread, and I currently have a pot of stew simmering on the stovetop (made with Guinness, of course) and have just finished watching Judy sprinkle some serious charm over an often hokey, but good hearted film called Little Nellie Kelly.  Tonight, my roommate and I will be watching Darby O'Gill and The Little People, and another friend is coming over later to have a drink and eat some stew.  So it should be a pretty cozy evening.

Now, a word for Little Nellie Kelly.  If you want a perfect example of early 1940's schmaltz, patriotism, and overt rapturizing over familial love, you need not look any further.  If you are looking for some really ineffective Irish brogues, this is your film.  Even Judy's is less than stellar, although she more than makes up for it by taking the somewhat wooden dialogue and making it breathe.  She just exudes genuine warmth, and when she opens her mouth to sing, it doesn't get any better.

The first half of the film revolves around a charming but lazy Irishman by the name of Michael Noonan, who rants and raves at his local pub about the menace of work.  His young daughter, Nellie Kelly watches over him and keeps house for him as her mother had passed away some time before.  But when she falls in love and decides to move away to America so that her future husband can find a better opportunity for work, Mr. Noonan is having none of it.  Of course, all three of them eventually make their way to New York City, and there are loads of opportunities for dewey eyed Judy to beam patriotism as images of the American flag, and the Declaration of Independence scroll behind her.

The second half of the film revolves around Nellie Kelly's daughter, also played by Judy, who grows up to become a young woman and is stuck in between her feuding father and grandfather much as her mother had been.  She is pursued by the very stiff and off-putting Douglas McPhail.  He was being groomed by MGM at the time as an operatic lead, but he is a poor match for Judy, and while his voice is lovely and resonant, a great screen presence, he is not.

What makes this film work, as much as it does, are the dual performances of Judy Garland, and the brash and bombastic emoting of Charles Winninger, as her grandfather.  And, I have to admit, that in spite of some flaws, the MGM factory knew how to tell a story and I did find my eyes tearing up a few times during the film.  As a sidetone, this is the first time that Judy was allowed to be the center of a picture in which she is put on a pedestal as a beauty that all the young men are intent on wooing.

For those of you not able to invest the ninety minutes into the film, below is a clip from the St. Patrick's Day parade in which Judy and Douglas sing their little hearts out.

The Tenement Museum of New York

It's been nearly two weeks since I've posted, and one of the reasons it's been so long, though admittedly not the only one,  that I was waylaid, yet again, by a sickness which has been making the rounds.  In spite of my having had it a little over a month ago, it clocked me again and kept me in bed for a good three days before I was able to rejoin the world of the ambulant.

I was still a little out of it when I participated in a tour of the Tenement Museum with my co-workers at The New York Transit Museum as part of a kind of cross-cultural training we've been doing with them.  Some of their staff had been to our museum a few weeks earlier to learn about what the transit experience would have been like for immigrants in the early part of the twentieth century, and we were lucky enough to be able to experience their museum recently to learn more about how our past passengers and staff would have lived.  Cold or not, I was determined to go, as one of the perks of my employment with a center of learning, is that I have many opportunities to experience pieces of history in a way that others might not.  Being paid to tour The Tenement Museum is one such perk.

The Tenement Museum (along with the Transit Museum) is one of a few unique spaces in the city in that it is housed in a practical space.  In the case of The Transit Museum, we are housed in a subway station that is no longer being used to transport commuters and serves educational purposes by storing vintage, accurately restored subway cars from our last century.  We have also have a program in which costumed interpreters inhabit the space much like they would have, and share their stories with visitors.

The Tenement Museum had been an apartment building in operation beginning in 1868, which had been condemned in 1935, and left much as it was at that time.  In the late eighties it was purchased and transformed into an educational space, though much of it was left exactly as it was found, and provides an authentic experience of stepping back in time to the visitor, while allowing the museum to elevate the stories of "ordinary" people.  Visitors today can meet and interact with costumed interpreters portraying people who actually lived in the building many years ago.

The Tenement as discovered in 1988.

 Both museums provide unique views of the city experience as it was, and I consider myself lucky to be a part of an organization working to keep history alive in such a vital way.  Their aim is as much to provide a "feeling" and to imbue a sense of empathy for those who went before, as it is to transmit factual information.  I consider myself lucky to be a part of an organization that values this kind of experience, and works to keep this space alive and vital.  

The Piano Bar

Last Monday found me singing at a piano, shaky with nerves, but gaining confidence from my first vodka soda.  At the piano with me was a charming older gent, who's name may have been Stephen.  The scene was a bar frequented by the older set, often in suits, who lounged in Ethan Allen chairs amongst velvet curtains and hotel carpeting.  I'd come here to meet a date, who upon hearing that I liked antiquated type places, had recommended this place.  When I stepped inside I was a little nervous that I'd be under dressed, but while most of the men were indeed in slacks and ties, they were also almost all over sixty, so a pair of dark blue jeans wasn't going to make me feel much more conspicuous.

The date itself was fine, he was handsome enough, if a little too "inside himself" for my taste.  I don't mind reaching out to people and drawing them out, but I find it so much more fun to be with someone who meets me halfway.  Besides, there's someone else I have an interest in, but seeing as I'm not certain how interested he is in me (those careless arm brushes don't always mean anything) and I'm not wanting to put all my eggs in his basket, I've been going on dates a bit.  Truth be told, I am much more inclined to put all of my proverbial eggs into another man's proverbial basket, but it doesn't always pay to be this way, so in spite of the fact that it isn't in my nature to see multiple people at once, I've been trying to sprinkle my affections about until I'm on more certain ground.  

Does anyone else feel weird about the idea of dating more than one person at a time?  I feel like everyone else in the gay world is a lot better at being "casual" than I am.  After two dates or three dates with a person, if I was at all interested in the first place, I've usually decided to narrow my focus to just them, at least for the moment.  And if there's any kind of sexual intimacy, I'm afraid my eggs will definitely end up in that person's basket.  They might practically be thrown in there, and it won't be all, but... maybe 70% of my eggs will be in there jostling around.  And if it doesn't workout between us?  Well don't worry.  I don't take an inordinate amount of time to retrieve my eggs.  There will just be an awkward moment or two as we smile at each other with teeth showing, my eyes wide with discomfort as I say softly, "So...I'm probably going to need these back."

But where was I?  Oh yes, at this piano bar.  I was sitting on a low couch next to this guy, learning that one of his favorite movies was "The Aristocats", when he mentions that this place has somewhat of a "reputation" for being the kind of place where underweight, doe eyed twinks sashay from octogenarian lap to octogenarian lap, looking for an older daddy to buy them drinks, dole out dollars and take them home for an evening or twenty.  I don't know why I found this skeezy, and tainted my enjoyment of the place.  I mean, consenting adults, right?  I guess it's at least partly fear.  Fear of becoming one of them, or being thought of as one of them, and the fear of being in such a bloodless arrangement.  But as it happened, there were no shenanigans going on at the moment, as it was six on a Monday.  And if I did see the shenanigans it would most likely seem less sordid than it seemed at the moment.

At any rate, our conversation was scored by Brian or Stephen at the piano, crooning every chestnut by Gershwin or Berlin under the sun, and I have to say that hearing those songs made me feel very much at home, grateful that there was a place that these songs were appreciated.  And when when Stephen...or was it Brian... asked if anyone wanted to sing, my date practically pushed me up to the piano.  In truth, I pretended I needed more coaxing than I actually did.  And since it seemed like a pretty low pressure place, I went for it.  I have to say, it was really freeing.  And it was a decent place to practice "presence".  Plus, Brian or Stephen couldn't have been more charming, making me feel completely at ease, calling me  a "young thing" every once in awhile, and in this place I guess I was.  At least, relatively speaking.

Once I'd sung he bantered with me throughout the evening, tossing jokes and comments my way, suggesting I come back up for another song.  And while these kinds of interactions always make me incredibly self-conscious, it was very kind of him.  And while the date ended up being a no go, at least romantically, I may have to make my way to that or another piano bar at some point.