huddle up

The job itself is not ideal.  The pay is not great.  The work is not editorial, which was sort of my entire reason for moving here in the first place.  But it is in a bookstore, in fact, the bookstore where I’ve been volunteering for some six months.  So there is some sense of payoff for sweat stains and backaches.  And the bookstore is actually pretty cool, with lots of literary events and concerts (even Bjork).  And it’s a non-profit operation with its sights set on eradicating homeless and HIV/AIDS, so there’s that feel-goodness.  It undoubtedly carries more cache than slinging books at Barnes & Noble or Borders.  And it will help me scratch that nagging itch of “gotta get a job gotta get a job gotta get a job gotta get a job gotta get a job gotta get a job gotta get a job,” which will, in turn, allow me to focus on longer term writing projects such as another book (Deuced 2: Electric Boogaloo?).

the paper chase

And, really, most of my writing life has been spent daily (or nightly) toiling in the salt mines and then cranking out prose in my free time.  A Bukowskian existence of sorts (but without the scarring acne).  It wasn’t until The Los Angeles Times came a’callin’ that I ever smithed words for a well-beyond-livable income.

a fish tale

Which brings me back to birthdays.  September 2007.  The big 3-0 looming large.  A true milestone.  One christened by t-shirts and coffee mugs and knowing looks and nudging elbows and taking stock of one’s life.  I was eying my fourth decade of life saddled with a sizable (though slowly diminishing) credit card debt and a full-time job closed captioning pornography by candlelight (well, at night, anyway).  Not a horrible life, but not a wildly satisfying one, either.  Then, suddenly, my stock shot up.  Just four days before I turned 30, I landed the aforementioned sweet LA Times gig.  A daily newspaper.  A 130-some year old paper.  A fat paycheck.  Debts receded.  Savings ballooned (when you’re starting around zero, ballooning isn’t hard to do).  I was in an office with a bunch of creative people.  Things felt right.  But before I turned 31, I would be out on my ass, thanks to corporate restructuring, executive lunacy, a changing market and a complete lack of foresight.

who's got a tiger by the tail?

Which brings me to September 2008.  Jobless, heartbroken, humiliated (I understand it was just business,  but the whole affair left me with career blue balls), a 31-year-old me pulled up stakes and headed east to New York City, land of plenty, publishing capital of the world, desperate to parlay my brief tenure at LAT into another sweet editorial gig.  Thanks to the sweetness of my recently departed gig, I had money in the bank and a fat (phat?) unemployment claim, so, while I didn’t land any editorial gigs (sweet or otherwise) thanks to an imploding national/global economy and the continuing downward spiral of the publishing industry, I was able to explore this amazing city, as well as the surrounding majesty of the East Coast (D.C., Balto, Montauk, Mystic, Vermont, Hudson Valley, Chesapeake Bay, Cape May, hey, hey, hey) without fretting too much (though, admittedly, I did find time for some frets).  But man cannot live by unemployment claim (or sporadic freelance gigs) alone.

out to sea

Which brings me to September 2009.  After some six months volunteering and taking the occasional lumps at the aforementioned bookstore, I had made a good name for myself (or at least my name was finally known in the bookstore [in truth, that part didn't take six months]) and was tipped off about an employment opportunity with the store.  The first one slipped through my grasp (a part-time gig),  but then an email alerted me to a second, this one  full-time (though, technically, temporary [a three-month prove-your-worth period, which could very well lead to ongoing goings-on]).  I went for it.  I got it.  In this depressed/recessed/shy economy which has seen people living in cars and tents and eating dirt and each other (last two things being totally fabricated), it isn’t so much to ask of me to take a pay cut (even from my unemployment checks) and roll up my sleeves and get some goddam work done.

hi-ho, hi-ho

Besides, there’s always September 2010, when I will turn 33, the age of a crucified Jesus H. Christ.

do you want it? you gotta want it!

daily affirmation

I drink a lot of whisky, and when I do, I like to drink Dewars (though finances often dictate a visit with Mr. Evan Williams), so discovering this amazingly cool ad for Dewars painted on the side of a building across the street from my apartment felt like some kind of blessing of my move to New York (to contrast the screaming panic generated by the economic collapse that happened two days after I arrived). And not only do I drink Dewars, but the advice extoled by the ad fit so perfectly with my general disposition, with the Los Angeles existence from which I had just departed. This was exemplified by my LA friend, Tommy, who, in fact, introduced me to Dewars, specifically the drink Dewars and soda, which was, as he claimed, exceptionally refreshing. The kind of drink one might have in the club house after a round of golf (and while I don’t golf, I can appreciate the idea). Tommy is a lot of things (guitar god, enabler, hockey phenom, hedonist, uncle) but above all things, the guy is mellow. And after leaving that LA mellowness and heading into the heart of braggadocio, it’s nice to have another mellow Tommy in my life.

bottom of the mustard, third from the top, on the left

On my morning walk along the Red Hook waterfront today, I was a bit alarmed to see a large bird standing dumbly on the walkway before me. In my morning stupor I actually took it to be a bald eagle due to coloration and size, but then I realized it was a seagull that just appeared considerably more massive than usual due to the open wing hanging simply along its right size, dragging on the ground. Oh, shit, I thought, this bird is fucked.

not looking good

I had that sick feeling that you get when you see a dog get hit by car. I didn’t have my cell phone on me as I wanted to maintain the serenity of my morning walk to the water (though it was less about being disturbed by calls than about ditching the clock, which functions as my watch). So I kept walking to the end of the peninsula behind Fairway and turned to gaze out at the harbor, looking at the Statue of Liberty head-on (Red Hook is the only place in New York where she’ll look you in the eye). It’s very calming to listen to the lapping of the waves and watch the slow progress of the boats and see the distant industry ringing the harbor. There were also half a dozen black, loon-like ducks feeding just down the rocks from me. And there was that other bird…

trying to see eye to eye

I looked back the way I’d come and no longer saw the seagull. Maybe the injury wasn’t so debilitating. But there were a string of planters and pylons between the two of us now. And, sure, enough, first I spotted a guy coming my way, then I saw the seagull hobbling into view. How the hell had he gotten so messed up. Botched landing? Botched take-off? Hooligans? Dog attack? Brittle bones due to pollution? Lack of pre-flight stretching? On my way back down the walkway, I mumbled, I’ll call somebody, gull, as I walked past and off to Fairway.

After I unloaded the groceries, I found New York Animal Care & Control on the web. A recorded message told me to either call another number or call city services at 311. I wasn’t sure that NYACC was really the one to help, as they seemed more of an animal adoption agency, so I called 311. After a number of recorded messages (swine flu, alternate-side parking restrictions, subway info) I got through to an operator and explained, sort of sheepishly, that, well, there was a seagull with a broken wing and, I don’t know, do you guys do anything about that? The woman, in the lovely lilt of a Caribbean accent, repeated what I had told her and then said, hold on, yes, there was someone who could help. Then she connected me to… New York Animal Care & Control. After ten or fifteen minutes on hold, someone answered and I, again, explained the situation. Hmm, he said, we really only handle dogs and cats. But he gave me another number to call. And who is this? I asked as I wrote the number down. The Department of Environmental Conservation. Now we’re getting somewhere.

I called the DEC. The phone was answered within a few rings, which seemed like a good sign. I explained the injured gull situation again and, yes, the guy said they did assist birds. They were only two people in the city who would tend to injured birds, he informed me, and they did it on a voluntary basis. That’s commendable, I thought. Then he explained that, what usually happened was the person calling to report the injured bird would actually go pick up the bird and transport it to one of the two volunteers. You want me to pick up the seagull? I asked. Well, no, that is a really big bird, he admitted. These people were usually dealing with sparrows or the like. Well, I don’t know who is going to let me carry a seagull on a bus or the subway. No, no, it’s usually done in a car, the guy admitted. Granted, I have access to a car, but during the day my girlfriend uses it to drive to work way up in Westchester. So am I just supposed to leave it to die? I asked. Well, no, people bring in big birds all the time. Somebody brought in a swan. Somebody else brought in a red-tailed hawk. Guess those birds are just much prettier, I said. No response. So the city doesn’t have anybody to come and help? I asked. No, he said. Well, I just think that’s kind of bullshit. I’m just a phone operator, he said. So the city doesn’t do anything? Well, that would require an ambulance, he said. Well, it could just be a car, I offered. A car is an ambulance, he countered. And then we’d also have to train the responders on how to handle an injured bird. But instead you expect the public to handle the injured bird? I demanded. I’m just a phone operator, he repeated. And I’m just going to go to the next call. Thanks. Click.

Sorry, gul. I’ll check in on you when the car gets home tonight. And I’ve completed my seagull-handling course.

All I know is that in L.A., they’ll come move a skunk for you. WTF, NYC?

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