From the plane yesterday
Saturday I promised myself that I could do some sightseeing in New York if I got a few thousand words under my belt, and so after eating breakfast, I sat down at 9:30 and indeed wrote the first part of chapter 20. Despite my cavils last week, I did know what I wanted to start with the in the chapter, and so I wrote that: 20a and 20b, and I got a good start on 20c. That came out to 2500 words -- a fair day, though I did not manage to advance the plot much. Now that I'm in the second-to-last lap, comparatively, I'm conscious that every word should be advancing the plot, and I fell somewhat short of that. But the important thing is to finish the first draft by hook or by crook.
So I wrapped that up around 1:00 and went out. I did something that was perhaps a little foolish: I went to something in the far north of Manhattan -- the Cathedral of St. John the Divine, and then Riverside Church -- followed by something in the far south -- the Staten Island Ferry. By the time the latter departed, the sun was setting, and as it was a hazy day, the view left something to be desired. But you could still see the sights, it just wasn't crystal clear the way it was in May when Cris and I came in.
I had always been a little curious about Staten Island, supposing that it couldn't possibly be so close to Manhattan and be completely boring. And yet it was. And the air was warm and very sticky. The most interesting thing was a brand-new class A minor league stadium of the Yankees. I went back to the ferry terminal and had to wait quite a long time in an airless concrete hall for the return. But the return ride was wonderful, of course. I don't know that it's ever not wonderful. It was night and tourists were taking flash pictures of the skyline from miles away.
When I got back to shore I decided it would be just too uncomfortably hot down on the subway platform, and looking at my pocket-sized laminated map I saw that the M6 bus would take me up 6th Avenue, which is also where the PATH train runs. So I got on that. What I didn't realize is that on the way to 6th Ave. it would also take me up Church St. directly past the WTC site, which I had been avoiding.
Apparently there are no more forbidden areas; you can go right up to the fence and look in; in fact, they have built a special fence in places to allow this. Earlier I overheard someone saying that the only benefit of looking at the site, now that it has become entirely a construction site, is to get a sense of the vastness of the area that had been destroyed, that you couldn't get that from TV. But I had gotten it from TV.
What was impressive, however, was the high iron fence around St. Paul's; every inch was covered, and I'm not exaggerating, with tributes, messages, flowers, banners, and pictures and so forth --for example, I saw a t-shirt hung at the top of the fence, reading LACKAWANNA FIRE DEPT. The sheer amount of the tributes and so forth, along with the knowledge that this had been happening for months, really was rather impressive.
At the airport the next day, I bought a New York Times; it's one of the first Sunday Times I've gone through since the beginning of the summer, when I changed our subscription to no-Sunday. There were a bunch of memorable pieces.
In the Arts & Leisure section there was an interesting article on Jerry Seinfeld, a standup comedian who became incredibly successful and wealthy through a television show during the 1990s. I've never liked him or his show, and the article offers a clue why. The piece is about how Seinfeld decided, after the TV show ended in 1998, to completely reconstruct his act after going on the road and being devastated when he launched into a familiar bit and a cutting voice came from the audience; "Heard it!" The article went on to describe a day in which Seinfeld, more or less on a dare, offered to spend a few hours with the journalist gathering "impressions" of his own neighborhood -- the Upper West Side -- and from them construct a "bit" that he would then try out at a comedy showcase that night. That part was interesting, especially the comedian's shop-talk, which I may readily mine for my novel.
But the article also contained a strong clue as to why I've never liked Seinfeld's persona (regardless of whether or not he is reconstructing his "act" from the ground up, as the article said, his persona clearly remains the same). At the beginning of the piece, he pulls up in front of the designated meeting spot in a limo; at the end of the piece he departs the same way. This suggestion of a god descending via a chariot to spend a few hours with mortals, and then reascending at the end of the day -- it must have been intentional on the part of the writer -- exposes the subject's basic arrogance. That's why I've never liked the guy; he gives off an air that he's doing you a favor by showing up.
On the plane, I ate the miserable and tiny "dinner," which consisted of about three ounces of roast beef with a puffy dike of mashed potatoes separating the meat from a few bits of vegetables. I felt so contemptuous of this collection, and of the generally crabby attitude of the flight crew, that I considered teasing them by saying "Look! Look! A vegetable! Did you know it was in there?" But I didn't. One doesn't joke on planes these days, especially on flights from Newark to San Francisco departing just a few days after the anniversary of you-know-what.
Instead, I purchased one of their little bottles of wine, which affected me strongly enough that it reminded me of an incident a few days ago that I had forgotten about. One of the writers brought into the office a container of soggy spanikopita that must have been left over from the weekend -- this was Wednesday. Just before I thrust a large piece into my mouth, I noticed a spot of purple mold on the bottom of it; but it was too late. Down the hatch. For the next three hours I felt slightly high, as if I'd taken a very small amount of acid.
A man in the seat across the aisle and up a little was watching a movie, or a portion of a movie, on his laptop. I'd never actually seen anyone do this before, and the fact that he was a classic nerd -- an overweight Asian man in a polo shirt -- made it seem more ridiculous. The movie -- that helicopter Vietnam movie starring Mel Gibson, who is ubiquitous these days -- actually had large English subtitles easily visible from my seat. They blew up a California ravine that was supposed to be Vietnam, although the line of hills in the background was so obviously an oak-covered California hillside that it seemed even more ludicrous.
Mel Gibson looks very manly in a steel helmet.. A guy gets shot and says calmly "I'm glad I could die for my country." What shit! The motherfucking Hollywood war-mongers.
