Recently, I found myself in the East Village racing down 2nd Avenue on my way to see an all-female benefit production of “King Lear” (I mean, naturally) that a friend was producing. By the way, I’m not making this up. Despite my tardiness, I couldn’t help but stop and gawk at a new business that was soon to open on the ground level of a new, probably over priced, glass apartment building. The business in question was a soon to be “Preschool for the Arts”
Again, not making this up.
Here is a classic case of what can happen to our society without anyone consulting me first. Please, don’t get me wrong. As a proud patron of the arts (see above), I applaud any effort to enhance the already too fragile art education of our youths in such times. Despite all this, I must protest such an institution in my city. In a world where child stars go one to achieve such greatness in our country finest, most exclusive, rehab facilities, I find it socially irresponsible to encourage the barely potty trained to express themselves any further. In fact, I urge against anyone so young to express themselves until they are at least 13 years old, and have a better grasp on technique. Similarly, I am abhorred by the thought of a parent deciding their child was born to surpass the careers of Mark Rothko, Joni Mitchell, or Kathryn Hepburn and therefore need to send them to a school where they will undoubtedly spend their afternoons in endless Meisner repetition exercises or criticizing their colleague's prose.
Never the less, in an odd turn of events I happened across the files of the incoming class (The First Years, as they will be known) and would like to share some of them here.
Pupil: Francine Kirkland
Age: 3 1/2
Concentration: Vocal Performance
Ms. Kirkland was found when the audition tour found themselves in Morristown, NJ. She auditioned wearing an adorable pink satin dress and while patent leather shoes, using the contrasting pieces of “Old MacDonald” and the non-secular “Jesus Loves the Little Children”. While the adjudicators felt the later lacked depth on a dramatic side, her enthusiasm for each of the farm animal sounds in her rousing rendition of “Old MacDonald” was a real joy. One adjudicator commented “Her ability to believably neigh like a horse promises great potential in terms of breath support and flexibility”. All found her diction lacking, but, as one adjudicator so eloquently wrote, the “byproduct of the adolescent orifice.”
Pupil: Francisco Munoz
Age: 3 years
Concentration: Visual Art
It was clear from Francisco’s portfolio he has a gift for visual art that has both variety and technical skill. “House with Sun and Flower in crayon and ball point pen” depicted a seemingly happy, though weatherd, Cape-Cod style house in a green field with a single flower basking in a disproportionate sun. The color choice of blue and brown for the house lead the admissions committee to the conclusion that his color choices “reflect an original voice.” “Untitled #4 in water-based paint and glitter,” an abstract piece, showed wild abandon in his finger painting technique. According to his application, Francisco also dabbles in clay and is bisexual.
Pupil: Mikatsu Agaki
Age: 4
Concentration: Piano Performance
Mr. Agaki was granted a full ride scholarship when the school saw a YouTube video of him playing a piece by Franz Liszt in the atrium of a department store on Long Island.
Pupil: LaKhoma
Age: 4
Concentration: Modern Dance
LaKhoma (who is male) was born Roger Grant. He changed it hoping to be taken more seriously. He explained on his application, “Roger sounds like the name of a tap instructor, not a world class contemporary dancer.” He showed very little technique during ballet class, and had trouble with his fourth position. None the less, the solo piece he had prepared (which was accompanied by live drumming from his mother) was heavily influenced by traditional Balinese dance, but also drew from the Aborigine and Indian cultures. The seamless interweaving of cultures, and clever mask work, firmly secured his spot in the school. The only dissenting vote was Roger Costellini, the tap teacher.
Pupil: Constance Olstad
Age: 4 ½
Concentration: Theatre Performance
Constance’s audition for the Drama division was an epic disaster. First, her mother forgot to bring her lucky audition head band (she is very superstitious). It was downhill from there. Constance started off with a selection from Madea, but completely went up halfway through her speech and was unable to finish. Her second piece was a contemporary work from the 2008 Humana Plays Festival that had a fair amount of audience interaction involved (Constance hates the word “safe”) and the panel was just not having it. The Drama division at the school is highly regarded in the industry and the faculty is extremely tough. She next attempted belting the Sondheim classic, “There Won’t Be Trumpets.” Not being very musically inclined, she neglected to see if the music was in a good key. Being a pack a day smoker since birth, Constance’s voice had an extremely rough, husky sound, similar to that of a Kathleen Turner or Harvey Fierstein, and she nearly busted a blood vessel reaching the high notes. At this point she merely broke into tears, stormed out of the room (forgetting the sheet music on the piano) and left calling her mother words that cannot even be written here over that “f-ing headband.” If it wasn’t for the fact that the division head had directed her in her previous Preschool’s production of The Milk Train Doesn’t Stop Here Anymore, poor Constance probably would have had to go back to spending her days sneaking cigarettes between coloring and snack time.
Again, that is just a sampling of the incoming class which boasts a roster of 122 students, split between the different concentrations of Dance, Theatre (performance and design), Music (vocal and instrumental), Creative Writing, and Fine Arts Management.
As I think of it, perhaps these magnet schools for younguns aren’t such a bad idea. I’m going ahead and starting a series of Preschool Trade Schools. So far, here are my ideas:
Fashion Institute for Children (FIC) Babies will, finally, have more fashionable outfits to wear that give them a more defined waist.
Montessori Polytechnic Institute. No apple juice near the keyboard, please.
Kidstown A&M. Those worms are not for eating....
The Mary Kate and Ashley Olsen Beauty Preschool. Barbie dolls around the world take a collective sigh of relief.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Monday, August 29, 2011
If only life were as easy as moving a matress
This past weekend, the eastern seaboard (Including, and limited to New York City) was hit by Hurricane Irene, aptly named as Irene is my mother's middle name. But I digress. In anticipation, New Yorkers hurried to the nearest Whole Foods or Dean and Deluca to stock up on what they would need in the event of a 40 year flood: Water Bottles (most New Yorkers don't realize they have a sink, or even a kitchen), Batteries (which still get made, to the surprise of many), Eggs Benedict and Bloody Mary mix (the storm was coming on a Sunday, and they'll be damned if they miss brunch), and four or five hundred dollars in cash (presumably, in the event of a power outage, the delivery man won't be able to run credit cards).
Myself, I had plenty of food since I just got back into town after being away all summer, remarkably found an unopened pack of AAA's, filled up a couple old water bottles for good measure, and had a stack of books at the ready. I also took out the air conditioners because the last thing I needed was one of them to fall out of a window and suddenly get all wet while I'm trying to sleep through it all.
After the storm passed (which, by the way, fell somewhat short in terms of magnitude), I was left to clean up all of my preparations. Water? I can drink that. Batteries? Eh, I'll use them eventually. Air conditioner on the floor? Hmmm.... I could put it back in the window, but like any little home project, that takes twice as much work than one might think. Besides, fall is a few short weeks away and the weather is already starting to turn cool. I'll just put it away.
Away means under my bed. The underbelly of a New Yorker's bed is prime real estate. Some, like me, use it for storage, but in a lean year I can always rent it out in an ad reading "Cozy space for rent. Perfect for the creative type. No smokers." There are two methods of putting anything away under my bed; 1) Lifting the mattress and box spring off and placing the items underneath and 2) Army crawl. Army crawl is best for small light items located near the open side (my bed sits in the corner). Being that a window air conditioning unit does not qualify as "small" nor "light" I am forced to option one. As a stubborn person, I care not to ask for assistance, or move any of the other furniture in my room in order to reduce my chances of getting a hernia. Oh sure, I remove the 16 pairs of shoes that are in my way because I'd rather not loose my balance, but I see this as a challenge and, ultimately, a good workout.
First goes the mattress, which comes off easier than you might think. This is due to the fact that it is already two feet off the ground and hence far less difficult to leverage. The box spring is made with a few Popsicle sticks, cardboard, and some fabric and allows for a high ease of move score. The air conditioner, while heavy, is easily handled by an able bodied person and placed in it's winter home without much fuss. The same goes for putting the box spring back on the frame.
Getting the mattress back on the box spring is not a skill possessed by many. They are large, heavy, and flimsy. Proper training is required as it takes strength, agility, and a basic understanding of mechanical engineering. Also handy is anyone over 6 feet tall, and Tae Kwon Do prodigies. I possess none of these, but I am also a daredevil and disregard any warnings. I contemplate flipping the mattress first as I understand that is advisable as often as you change your oil. I don't own a car, therefore I don't need to change it's oil, so that is reason enough not to attempt the mattress flip. Besides, It is an advanced technique anyway, and is advised only for well seasoned mattress movers. I may be a daredevil, but I know when to stop. Some mattresses have handles strategically positioned to aid the novice mattress mover, but there was no room in my mattress buying budget for handles. Over the course of about one half-hour (5 minutes in real time) I try lifting the mattress above my head like Superman, sliding it across the carpet, and finally settle on systematically rolling one corner onto the box spring and clumsily gyrating the mattress against the back wall and letting it slide down into place. At this point I'm glad I still haven't hung any of the pictures I've been meaning to hang above my bed for about a year now as I would now be occupied with cleaning up broken glass.
Who the hell invented the mattress anyway? I'm not convinced my back is any better off on these slabs of wire. I think a good woven straw cot or hammock is a much better idea. It would really set me apart from most other people. I could have friends over and show them my room. They'd snicker at first but then realize what a creative idea it is to have a hammock and instantly find me more interesting.
"What a practical solution for a small space!" they'd say.
"You really think so?" I ask.
"Of Course!"
"Oh, I suppose you're right."
"I am right."
The options are endless. I can re-arrange my space almost instantly, and easily fold it up every time I wanted to do yoga or take out my snowboots. Not to mention easy to take with you, a big selling point for a nomad like me. Just think of the luxury involved in being able to take my bed in my carry on luggage. From New York to Tunis: Anywhere I hang my hammock in home.
Myself, I had plenty of food since I just got back into town after being away all summer, remarkably found an unopened pack of AAA's, filled up a couple old water bottles for good measure, and had a stack of books at the ready. I also took out the air conditioners because the last thing I needed was one of them to fall out of a window and suddenly get all wet while I'm trying to sleep through it all.
After the storm passed (which, by the way, fell somewhat short in terms of magnitude), I was left to clean up all of my preparations. Water? I can drink that. Batteries? Eh, I'll use them eventually. Air conditioner on the floor? Hmmm.... I could put it back in the window, but like any little home project, that takes twice as much work than one might think. Besides, fall is a few short weeks away and the weather is already starting to turn cool. I'll just put it away.
Away means under my bed. The underbelly of a New Yorker's bed is prime real estate. Some, like me, use it for storage, but in a lean year I can always rent it out in an ad reading "Cozy space for rent. Perfect for the creative type. No smokers." There are two methods of putting anything away under my bed; 1) Lifting the mattress and box spring off and placing the items underneath and 2) Army crawl. Army crawl is best for small light items located near the open side (my bed sits in the corner). Being that a window air conditioning unit does not qualify as "small" nor "light" I am forced to option one. As a stubborn person, I care not to ask for assistance, or move any of the other furniture in my room in order to reduce my chances of getting a hernia. Oh sure, I remove the 16 pairs of shoes that are in my way because I'd rather not loose my balance, but I see this as a challenge and, ultimately, a good workout.
First goes the mattress, which comes off easier than you might think. This is due to the fact that it is already two feet off the ground and hence far less difficult to leverage. The box spring is made with a few Popsicle sticks, cardboard, and some fabric and allows for a high ease of move score. The air conditioner, while heavy, is easily handled by an able bodied person and placed in it's winter home without much fuss. The same goes for putting the box spring back on the frame.
Getting the mattress back on the box spring is not a skill possessed by many. They are large, heavy, and flimsy. Proper training is required as it takes strength, agility, and a basic understanding of mechanical engineering. Also handy is anyone over 6 feet tall, and Tae Kwon Do prodigies. I possess none of these, but I am also a daredevil and disregard any warnings. I contemplate flipping the mattress first as I understand that is advisable as often as you change your oil. I don't own a car, therefore I don't need to change it's oil, so that is reason enough not to attempt the mattress flip. Besides, It is an advanced technique anyway, and is advised only for well seasoned mattress movers. I may be a daredevil, but I know when to stop. Some mattresses have handles strategically positioned to aid the novice mattress mover, but there was no room in my mattress buying budget for handles. Over the course of about one half-hour (5 minutes in real time) I try lifting the mattress above my head like Superman, sliding it across the carpet, and finally settle on systematically rolling one corner onto the box spring and clumsily gyrating the mattress against the back wall and letting it slide down into place. At this point I'm glad I still haven't hung any of the pictures I've been meaning to hang above my bed for about a year now as I would now be occupied with cleaning up broken glass.
Who the hell invented the mattress anyway? I'm not convinced my back is any better off on these slabs of wire. I think a good woven straw cot or hammock is a much better idea. It would really set me apart from most other people. I could have friends over and show them my room. They'd snicker at first but then realize what a creative idea it is to have a hammock and instantly find me more interesting.
"What a practical solution for a small space!" they'd say.
"You really think so?" I ask.
"Of Course!"
"Oh, I suppose you're right."
"I am right."
The options are endless. I can re-arrange my space almost instantly, and easily fold it up every time I wanted to do yoga or take out my snowboots. Not to mention easy to take with you, a big selling point for a nomad like me. Just think of the luxury involved in being able to take my bed in my carry on luggage. From New York to Tunis: Anywhere I hang my hammock in home.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Is this it? Am I in the right place?
Did I do it? I think i just created a blog. I think. I've tried countless times, but I don't last. I recently joined tumbler, but that is turning out to be a bit of a bust. Perhaps I should have a friend help me with that one since clearly I'm stuck in the 1800's when it comes to technology. I sent my first e-mail in the year 2000 which is several years past when e-mailing became popular. My ability to adapt to technology is severely inhibited by my ability to discount every new device that comes our way as a simple fad. I remember when the iPhone came out thinking, "Who the hell would want that? Why do you need to carry the internet around with you everywhere? I already have a phone and an iPod, so why would I need this expensive, delicate thing instead?" Now, truth be told, I think they are pretty swank. I'm so jealous of everyone who has one. I'm not however jealous of having to pay all that money to have all that swank, but so goes the world I guess.
It does puzzle me. Puzzle? No, wrong term. Annoy me when I see folks glued to their phones. This sentiment is hardly anything new or revolutionary, but I really have to wonder what is so goddamn important on that e-mail that you have to check it now while you're trying to put the cream and sugar in your coffee. Must be a really good Groupon or something. I say this as a person whose first movement each day is to reach for his laptop and check Facebook.
I've realized that I move a little slower than the world around me, and I don't think that's all together a bad thing. I relish the moments where I'm perceptively doing nothing. I say perceptively because an outsider would just see me sitting there staring into the great abyss, whereas I know that the wheels of my mind are in overdrive. All just a matter of perception. Teachers used to say I lacked focus, I used to say that I was a dreamer, like Walt Disney.
But this can't all be a bad thing, right? It takes all kinds, or so I hear. I don't feel as if I were born at the wrong time, but I've never felt like I identified with the social current. The recent Woody Allen movie "Midnight in Paris" touched on this precise idea. Owen Wilson's character thought he would have flourished if he had lived in 1920's Paris with the likes of Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, and Cole Porter. He learned (as any good protagonist will learn in a story) how you can complain that you were born too late, but you have to live in the time in which you live, and be thankful that technological advances, like Novocaine, make our lives better. Or, in my case, smart phones.
It does puzzle me. Puzzle? No, wrong term. Annoy me when I see folks glued to their phones. This sentiment is hardly anything new or revolutionary, but I really have to wonder what is so goddamn important on that e-mail that you have to check it now while you're trying to put the cream and sugar in your coffee. Must be a really good Groupon or something. I say this as a person whose first movement each day is to reach for his laptop and check Facebook.
I've realized that I move a little slower than the world around me, and I don't think that's all together a bad thing. I relish the moments where I'm perceptively doing nothing. I say perceptively because an outsider would just see me sitting there staring into the great abyss, whereas I know that the wheels of my mind are in overdrive. All just a matter of perception. Teachers used to say I lacked focus, I used to say that I was a dreamer, like Walt Disney.
But this can't all be a bad thing, right? It takes all kinds, or so I hear. I don't feel as if I were born at the wrong time, but I've never felt like I identified with the social current. The recent Woody Allen movie "Midnight in Paris" touched on this precise idea. Owen Wilson's character thought he would have flourished if he had lived in 1920's Paris with the likes of Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, and Cole Porter. He learned (as any good protagonist will learn in a story) how you can complain that you were born too late, but you have to live in the time in which you live, and be thankful that technological advances, like Novocaine, make our lives better. Or, in my case, smart phones.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)