Springtime for Greg in New York (do I have to explain that joke?)

It’s taken me awhile to come up with a good blog post. I want to write a post about one of the main pieces of this blog- my possible and gradual falling out of love with New York.

This post isn’t going to be about that. This one is going to be much shorter. I wanted to talk about a couple of random things instead.

Let’s start with how beautiful the weather here in the city was tonight, but not for the day. There’s a reason I live in a fairly cold weather climate. According to the local news, it was 92 degrees Fahrenheit (33 Celsius; you’re welcome Mel!) during the day, and 80 degrees at 11 pm. The city, during the summer, averages 85 degrees, and summer doesn’t go into full swing here until July and stays until the end of August. Are you kidding me???? It was gross (a word I seldom use) today. As my friend Daniel said today, “I prefer cold to hot. You can always put on layers. You can’t peel your skin off.” Oh Daniel, how pithy.


Haha! Get it?

But nighttime, and especially downtown, where the streets tend to get closer to the rivers and the ocean, was beautiful! We sat in Washington Square Park, and watched the beautiful NYU ladies and the “so-hip-it-makes-me-feel-like-a-jock” gay guys. There was a little kid playing an old, cruddy piano. He was good, but it was very by rote; his pieces, such as Chopin’s Nocturne Opus 27 No. 2 (yes, I know of that by memory), were pretty, but lacked any emotion. The breeze breathed into us, and all of my senses had been awoken. Ahhh, now this is spring in New York, the second best season here (there’s a reason someone named a film “Autumn in New York”).



Springtime means something more than just beautiful weather. It means baseball. [Sports are a guilty pleasure of mine, particularly soccer, baseball and hockey]. Pay no attention to the prognostications and economics of sport; American football holds no power over the country like baseball does. I take that back- this region, from about Philadelphia all the way up to Maine, along the sea coast and in about one hundred miles, is baseball country. When I feel that early spring breeze and the girls start to wear flowing dresses without stockings underneath, I remember spring baseball leagues when I was very young. I couldn’t get into it; when I was young, I didn’t like any sports, preferring to read and draw (I still love these things far more than any sport).


You wouldn't believe how hard it was to find any pictures of springtime dresses and New York that didn't involve Paris Hilton.

Somehow, though, I still remember the smell of fresh leather from the mitt on my left hand and the feel of cold aluminum in my hands as I strained to make some contact of the bat to the ball, to make my grandfather proud. And then, when I failed as I often did, I was reminded by my peers that I should just go back to my books. I embraced sports when I reached middle school, thanks almost entirely to feeling like an outcast among my fellow boys, some more manly than others. I champed my teeth and dove into the games, reading about their histories voraciously. I started to work on shooting a basketball or on pitching a baseball. And here I am now, rooting on my hometown Yankees with one eye and, with the other, watching the ladies. Oh, spring, how I missed you.



To finish up- I wanted to say that I doubled my readership! Mel Cotton, from all the way out in the inner west (which I’m still a little confused over) of Sydney, has joined in and I’m glad to have her on this journey. Bear with me, dear reader; I’m just starting to figure this all out. Oh, and thank you to Valerie, who lives in Oregon, I believe, for a wonderful comment on the first post. I always enjoy being called a “genius.”

I’m going to tag Meryl Streep in this, just for you Valerie.

Just some of the babes of YOaCaYB or "YOCK- YIB" UPDATED

Ben told me to post pictures of "the babes" from the last post. So here you go, Ben, considering he's the only one who's following me at the moment.


Charlize Theron and the luckiest phone ever created


Jon Stewart, looking slightly high and holding a very phallic microphone. I know I said babes, but he might as well be. Yes, I have a man crush on him.


Fiona Apple, doing her best to look like a 18th century 12-year-old child. Love me. I'll never treat you badly. I'll always be there when you need to cry.


Anna Kendrick, looking like she probably did when I winked at her (in my dream). You know how you walk down the street and you see someone great looking, but you're not necessarily sure why you feel that way? That's how I feel about this lady.


Meryl Streep, probably looking down at the rest of Hollywood and smiling wryly with the knowledge that she has more talent than the rest of them put together.
























Also, I didn't add a picture of Scout because she's on a bike trip at the moment and I don't know if I have permission to do so. This is Scout; I had to update because she's on a bike trip and I didn't yet have her permission, until now! She's left Irvine, and all her Facebook says is that she's on "the Central Coast," which apparently means just north of Santa Barbara in wine country. Confession- I don't know much about Californian geography. Heck, I don't know much about West Coast geography. As you can see, Scout is beautiful and has a great personality. And she's single, male readers not named Ben!

Samson, or how to lose your facial hair and stay cool

So, I opened a new blog; I haven’t had one since the first couple of years of college. That was a whiny one, full of awkward quizzes and it had a Morrissey quote in the background. This one is not going to be like that.

The whole reason I’m doing this is simple: to reclaim an ounce of coolness in my life. Yes, I know, blogs aren’t actually all that cool. Honestly, I just have too many interesting thoughts that it would be a shame not to share. (This is, of course, in my opinion). I shaved my beard for a job- I grew it back, but I made up my mind as my chin started to appear. I’m pretty sure I lost a bit of my soul when the sun hit my bare cheeks that morning. I figured if I was going to have to put up with this hair indignity, I was going to do it with my fingers on a keyboard and my ears listening to a new record for me to complain about.

What’s this blog going to be about? Does it matter? Does anyone reading need a purpose?

Let me introduce myself via a story. This is about a daydream (you know when you’re awake, but let your mind wander and it becomes almost a REM-sleep dream; this is that) I had. I told it once to my friend Ben (Benny Paul) while we were at Kings County, a pretty great, very dark bar near his place. (The main things I remember are: it’s fairly cheap, they had no limes for our G and T’s, and the bartender was extremely cute and knew her way around bourbon). He thought it was really funny and I told him it would be here. It also doubles as my introduction to his wonderful blog- basically, it’s a blog about being a young man in a huge city, being down and out and loving it, being up, and just straight being. Also, if you enjoy British humor and Burt Jansch, he’ll probably fall in love with you (and you, in turn, should fall in love with him). Every girl I know has fallen in love with him.

The daydream goes like this: Ben, who is a pretty great filmmaker, and I, not a bad writer, particularly of poetry, were at the Oscars. This is right after the actual show. We had a film in the running, and he was in for best director and I was up for best screenwriter, and the film was up for best picture. We sat there, clearly uncomfortable in our rather nice tuxedos, which were probably rentals. I had my friend Scout (not her real name, but a common nickname for her) as my date- I’m pretty sure she came with me for the experience and a chance to wear a fabulous evening gown. Benji brought Charlize Theron, who had a thick South African accent in this dream; we kept asking her about South Africa, so I think the main reason Ben brought her was because she was South African. Not a joke- Ben enjoys accents and foreign stories. What does it say about me that I felt I should bring my friend as my date to Hollywood’s biggest event? That’s like bringing your mother- you clearly couldn’t get a good enough date or you date so many hot people, everyone applauds when you’re not bringing around a hot, sexy young thing. Not that you’re not a great date or a beautiful woman (she’s both), Scout, but I’d like to think I’d be having sex with a young lady with my Oscar statuette in the other hand. By the by, ladies and some gents, I suppose, if you’re having sex and the toy of choice is a gold gilded Oscar, you should never complain about the sex you’re having. Not ever.

Anyway, Jon Stewart goes up there for the best screenwriter awards, and does these impersonations of some nominees, including me. Apparently, I was well known enough for this to be funny. He combines my natural speaking voice (when I’m not drinking), a lower, sort of mumble, with my propensity to go an octave higher when something ridiculous happens. Most people refer to this as the Jerry Seinfeld or sitcom voice. Naturally, I win best screenwriter and get up there, and basically pull a Fiona Apple. If you don’t know what I’m referring to, YouTube it now. I’ll be here when you get back. So, I start saying all sorts of things about how this isn’t important and that we’re all bloomin’ lucky for what we do. The orchestra quickly plays me off. Everyone awkwardly shifts in their chairs, but Scout laughs and Ben just smiles and shakes his head. When he wins, everyone’s super happy for him; he steals a quick kiss from Charlize and hugs from Scout and I, and bounds up to the stage, his hair flopping and his legs only sort of running, like he’s trying to cross a street when the cars are coming down on him. His acceptance speech goes much smoother, and one can tell by the look in his eye that he’s almost saying, “Let me apologize for Greg.” He doesn’t, of course; I wouldn’t do it out of protocol, and I’m not saying Ben’s a boor, but he wouldn’t do it for other reasons. Simply, that trying to apologize for someone else’s personality and beliefs is like pissing in the wind. That is my impression; Ben may disagree. Anyway, he thanks all the right people, goofily smiles and walks away. I think we win best picture; my memory gets fuzzy, but I do remember finally thanking all my friends and family. That might have been an E! interview though. Last thing I remember was me winking at a beautiful young lady as we leave the theatre; it was probably Anna Kendrick from “Up in the Air,” but it could very well be Meryl Streep, who Ben and I have agreed is just plain sexy.