A Chance Encounter

This is my original story chronicling how a Christmas holiday spent exploring NYC helped me cope with the emotional turmoil of leaving my home and family in Egypt after the Arab Spring.

A Chance Encounter

By: Amira Badawey

All my bags are packed I’m ready to go

I’m standing here outside your door

I hate to wake you up to say goodbye

But the dawn is breakin’ it’s early morn

The taxi’s waitin’ he’s blowin’ his horn

Already I’m so lonesome I could die

So kiss me and smile for me

Tell me that you’ll wait for me

Hold me like you’ll never let me go

Cause I’m leaving on a jet plane

Don’t know when I’ll be back again

Oh babe I hate to go

Leaving on a Jet Plan echoed in my head while I packed my life into two suitcases. I was preparing to leave my home, my family, my country and move to the US. I sorted through my belongings, selecting what to take. I wept, knowing that I’d be leaving behind loved ones, a lifetime of memories, and a future of dreams.

Hard work always pays off, or so we’re told. Study diligently and you are rewarded with high grades. Put in the time and effort at work and you get a promotion. Yet, a single incident can eradicate all the hard work and in a heartbeat you lose everything. One of the first phrases our parents teach us in Egypt is “In Shaa Allah”, if God is willing. Can you take us to the amusement park? In Shaa Allah. Can I get more allowance for doing the dishes? In Shaa Allah. We learn early on that we are not in control of our destinies, for everything is by God’s will. Nevertheless, we’re expected to strive at achieving life’s rewards. We must work tirelessly and maintain the patience of Job. When the coveted promotion goes to the boss’s inept nephew, people condole us with “God wasn’t willing for it to happen. He has something better in store for you.” When we lose everything we’ve worked for, all our hopes, all our reasons for being, it is God’s will. We are helpless. We can only pick ourselves up and start over, while thanking God for his mercy, for we are better off than others. Mourning our loss is a sin. “Do you object to God’s will?” we are accused, “This is a test. Patience and perseverance will get you through. God will reward you, if not in life, then in the afterlife.” We are programmed to endure hardship with a sliver of hope for a reward after death. 

Spring is a time for blossoming and prosperity. However, the Arab Spring hit Egypt like a hurricane, destroying everything in its path. The revolutionists wanted to dispose of the country in its entirety and start anew. The economy and every other domestic system crumbled with the crush of the political structure. The only form of communication to survive the tumultuous birth of democracy was argument. Everyone was fighting with everyone. If you didn’t wholeheartedly support the revolution, then you were against it. If you dared to criticize the situation, you were pinned with a scarlet letter of traitor, democracy hater. Egyptians only saw the world in black and white. White being their opinions and black was all the others, the naysayers. I had lost my country, my job and life savings were soon to follow. I sought refuge in leaving Egypt, while I still loved it. As I stepped off the plane at JFK with a tear stained heart, I was certain that I would fall apart after a few weeks. Yet, I survived the first year and was planning a vacation. 

For the past twenty years, I had been the good student, the obedient daughter and diligent employee. I was exhausted, always rushing to meet deadlines and working tirelessly to secure my career. I continuously did what I was supposed to do, when I was supposed to do it. And In the process, I became dull and humorless. I couldn’t remember the last time I laughed out loud, the last time I played hooky to go to the movies, or the last time I merely had fun for the sake of having fun. I decided to spend Christmas break in New York and enjoy myself as much as I could. Yet, solitary tourism was a grim notion. Not having someone to remind me of the memories, someone to smile with over the mishaps was disheartening. My insecurities about being a thirty-seven year old single woman unfolded. The thought of spending ten days with just me, and no other human contact, was daunting. Surprisingly, I received a message from a friend, Magdy, saying that he would be in Philadelphia for the holidays and might come into the city for a quick visit. 

***

On The night before the beginning of my vacation, I was as excited as a child on her first day of school. I woke up the next day with a smile on my face as I rushed through my morning routine, eager to get to the city as soon as possible and rendezvous with Magdy.

I arrived at Penn Station at 8:30 am. The streets weren’t yet littered with tourist. I leisurely walked around without fear of stumbling over sightseers. Hidden snuggly in my jacket was a faithful travel companion, my digital camera. I took it out and captured the memories for future returns. I photographed Macy’s window displays along 34^th street, the statue at Herald Square, the Christmas tree at Bryant Park, Radio City Hall, the enormous holiday decorations lining 6^th avenue, and the Cartier store disguised as a gold and red glittery gift. I spent the majority of the day roaming Rockefeller Plaza. I enjoyed chocolate dipped macaroons from Godiva. I browsed the merchandize at the NBC experience store, reminiscing about Seinfeld and Friends. I admired the Chinese silk tunics on display at the MET shop and scrutinized the overly priced Egyptian memorabilia. I obsessively glanced at my phone, checking for missed calls or text messages, although I knew there were none. “This is ridiculous”, I thought, “Am I expected to spend the entire day tethered to my phone, hoping it’ll ring?” I decided to call Magdy. I looked up the familiar number and dialed. The phone rang for a while and then it went to voice mail. I left a message, 

“Hi! This is Amira. I just wanted to let you know that I’m already in the city. So call me when you get in and we can meet up, . . . or whatever works for you. . . . um. Okay, looking forward to seeing you. Byeeee.” 

I wondered aimlessly around the Plaza. With nothing better to do, I decided to ascend Rockefeller Center to the Top of The Rock and observe Manhattan. 

It was a sunless New York winter day with clear skies. I could see as far as the George Washington Bridge. Forgetting my fear of heights, I surveyed the magnificent Manhattan horizon. It is always the unexpected that brings so much joy. If Magdy hadn’t stood me up, I would’ve missed the best view of New York City. I sat on a large leather bench and took in the sight. The sheer size of Central Park was overpowering. Although it looked more like a winter horror than wonder land, it was captivating. As I rode down the psychedelic elevator, I checked my phone. There were still no messages, but to my surprise almost ninety minutes had passed. My ticket included admissions to MoMA. I wasn’t sure if Magdy was coming. Ever the planner and always the hopeful, I convinced myself to call him one last time. There was no answer. I reached for my guidebook and headed north on 6^th Ave in search of the modern arts.

I started on the last floor of MoMA and worked my way down. I looked at exhibits and paused on occasion to read the descriptive plaques. My heart wasn’t really into it, until I came across “The Scream”. I couldn’t stop staring at the painting. It was smaller than I expected, yet quite poignant in the expression of agony. The distorted face conveyed congealed shock, pain and fear. I could’ve been looking into a mirror. During my first year in New York, I was overwhelmed with the newness of the experience. I missed my family and the familiarity of little things like the metrics system and Celsius degrees. I missed Egyptian food I rarely ate but always had the convenience of consuming when I got the urge. I frequently ended in bed, crying and catching my breath between sobs. Washing away the tears, I was always surprised by the person staring back in the mirror. I didn’t recognize myself. I was a stranger. An old stranger agonizing over what the future might hold. “The Scream” evoked all those tearful nights.

Upon exiting MoMA, I walked straight to Penn station. It was early, not yet dark, but I had no desire to remain in Manhattan. I wasn’t hungry, despite only eating the macaroons. It’s amusing how things changed over the course of the day, how harshly they turned from sweet to sour, from light to dark. My feelings were dark, a mixture of blue sadness, black anger, and gray melancholy. I was homesick. I was lonely. I was angry for being homesick and lonely. As the train moved away from Manhattan and back to Long Island, my disposition darkened with the skies.

***

I had planned to see a production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof the next day, but I wasn’t in the mood. I decided to stay in and watch TV. The rest of the holiday wasn’t any better. Every morning, I forced myself to get out of bed, to get dressed and do something, anything. Every second, I forced myself to breathe in and breathe out.  I saw a couple of movies and I caught a cold. I went to an outlet mall seeking retail therapy to alleviate my somber trance, but to no avail. Each evening, I had dinner in bed and counted the days until the end of my self-induced sequester.

On the last Saturday, I had a ticket to see The Nutcracker. Lincoln Center was a vision out of the enchanted forest. Snowflakes cascaded onto the fountain and an animated toy train circled a large Christmas tree atop Avery Fisher Hall. I stood outside admiring the view. My mood lightened as I watched children catch snowflakes in their mouths and tourists pose for photographs. Entering the David E. Koch Theater, a smile emerged and remained plastered across my face throughout the entire performance. My joy didn’t deflate during intermission. Nestled squarely in the middle of a bank of seats, I was privy to the interactions of those around me. I sat in my place happily thumbing through the playbill and eavesdropping on their conversations. As the final act came to an end, I jumped out of my seat with jubilance and applauded with all my might. I understood why The Nutcracker was a cherished Christmas tradition and why families continue to attend the performance whether with their six year old daughters or grown sons. Clara and Fritz invite us to venture to their amazing dreamland, where gingerbread soldiers battle mice and little girls are crowned princesses of the Sugar Plums. A land we can revisit as often as we please as long as we hold the memory of The Nutcracker in our hearts. A land I was fortunate enough to witness in all the glory of the New York City Ballet.

I woke up the next day still basking in a dreamy state. My sadness, anguish and melancholy were fading, not so much for the imminent end of the vacation but rather the joyful aftertaste of The Nutcracker. I resolved to spend the day in my small town of Rockville Center, sleeping in, checking Facebook and Twitter, and eating at a local diner. 

One topic in particular was trending in the Egyptian Twitterverse that day. The country’s political unrest had devastatingly devalued the local currency. The elected government did nothing to rectify the situation. Instead, they adopted a passive attitude, blaming the old regime and never putting any solutions forward. Everyone was tweeting about the economy free fall. Comprehending the complicated tapestry of Egypt’s infant political system was as vexing as following the online rants. I escaped to Facebook, yet the Egyptian Pound’s plight followed me. The virtual arguments were taxing. Rather than justify their rational, people hurled insults at one another. I responded to tweets and posts with humor to deflect the tension. Soon after, I was frustrated and my earlier exuberance melted away. “To Hell with this”, I thought as I turned off my computer, got dressed and left for Manhattan. Not wanting to spend the day stewing in an endless political debate, I jumped on the train and retreated to New York City, hiding from the chirps of my twitter account.

I exited Penn Station and walked up the familiar path to Time Square. It was December 30^th, preparations for the New Year celebration were underway. A large crystal ball hovered over the busy intersection of 7^th avenue and 47^th street. Two stages were erected to accommodate TV presenters. The area was packed with crowds of people. I turned left onto a side street to escape the masses. As I walked down 46^th street, passing Broadway marquees, I noticed a poster promoting Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. I bought a ticket for that night’s show. 

The play had nothing on Elizabeth Taylor and Paul Newman. The cast stumbled around Maggie and Brick’s bed while shouting out their lines. The performance finally ended after three agonizing hours. As I stood up and turned around to put on my coat, I noticed James Franco in the seat behind me. I was overtaken with the urge to proclaim “That’s James Franco”, but to whom? Should I have told the couple to my left, who spent the entire time sipping wine and kissing? Should I have told the lady to my right who was chatting with her husband? I stood there looking left to right, following some invisible tennis match. On a whim, I decided to complement his acting, but for the love of God I couldn’t think of any other movie besides Pineapple Express. “You are a sophisticated thirty seven year old woman who enjoys the ballet and Tennessee Williams, how can you praise a stoner movie?” I scorned. After a while I finally remembered one of his worthier performances, thus saving face, but not for long. As I conjured up enough courage to approach him, his back was turned. That didn’t stop me, for I was hell bent on talking to him.  I tugged at his sleeve and he turned around. His face was five inches away, if I had tripped, I would have fallen into his arms. I gave him my most poised smile and said, “I liked you in Milk.” He nodded and replied with a silent thank you. For a sane person, that would have been enough. But I was running low on sanity that day. Instead of walking away, I gushed, “This is such a big deal. I have been in New York for a year and you are my first celebrity”. As soon as the words flew out of my mouth, remorse followed.  Concealing my blushed induced embarrassment, I looked down at the floor and wished him a happy holiday. Mr. Franco’s response was quite charming and gracious. He smiled, with all his face, and wished me happy holidays in return. Although he was smiling in amusement to my comic reaction, I chose to believe that he was simply smiling at me.

On my way back to Penn Station, I noticed a bounce in my step. I was dying to tell someone, anyone, that I had just met James Franco. I almost shouted it out to complete strangers. Skipping down 8^th Avenue my smile widened with each leap. The darkness dissipated into New York’s aura. As the sadness, anger, and melancholy lifted, I could see more clearly and out in the obscure crowd I noticed a face, someone I hadn’t seen in over twenty years. She looked up and smiled. We ran towards each other and embraced. The first thing she said was, “Oh my God, you look so old.” This took me by surprise, for I had forgotten how painfully honest she can be. Then I remembered detecting glimpses of her throughout the week. She was present in my passion for The Nutcracker and disdain with the political discourse, in the ferociousness of my humorous tweets, the spontaneity of planlessly riding into the city that Sunday, and the giddiness of proclaiming My First Celebrity. At that moment, I decided to hold on to her, to hold on to me. A me that existed before the seriousness of life took over, before I was burdened with the responsibilities of making a living and riddled with the guilt of disappointing my mother for never marrying. A me who made her own luck. A me who allowed herself to be silly and relished the experience. Since 2011, I’d been living the life of a victim, grieving the loss of my country and predictability of my life. I’d been pursuing the negatives and neglecting the positives. By approaching James Franco, I took control of the situation. I changed it from “Seeing James Franco” to “Meeting James Franco”. I made that happen, and I can make my time on earth a great and memorable experience. I have learned to savior the little things in life and embrace happiness, even when it comes in the form of a chance encounter with James Franco and the pleasure of bragging about it to everyone I meet.

Everything Good Must Come to an End

Those of you who follow my blog (who are you by the way? Do you actually exist or are you a figment of my imagination?) will know that I harbor a school girl crush on James Franco. It started innocently enough at the end of 2012 when Mr. Franco showed me much kindness at a time I was low on any positive sentiment and has flourished through a yearful of Franco shit. In the beginning I secretly followed his artistic fortes, writing about my Franco induced adventures in my journal, until a colleague at work started to mercilessly tease me, shouting Your boyfriend was on Howard Stern or Letterman or whatever as he passed me in the corridor. As long as I was being ridiculed for this crush, I might as well shifted it into high gear. I vowed to experience as much of Franco's art as I could. 2013 has been a busy year for James Franco and thus it has been quite easy to work on my Year of The Franco project, in which I have,

• Read 4 of his books. With the 5th "Actors Anonymous" at the top of my to read pile
• Watched 7 of his old movies, 6 of his new releases, and 3 on my to see list
• Attended his performance art show at MOMA PS1 titled Bird Shit
• Attended 3 of his book signings in NYC - I even got to ask him a question in the Q&A section of one of the events

Not to mention a long list of books I have read because of him. A detailed description of this odyssey will be posted on my blog on Dec 29 2013, if God is willing. It has been quite the ride. I have enjoyed every bit of it. But now it's time for me to crawl out of my head and back into reality.

I always, always feel very awkward at James Franco events - refer to my post about Bird Shit for details. One phrase comes to mind as I stand in the line of very young - mostly artistic - creative minds,"I'm too old for this shit!" With every event I am overwhelmed with a dread of absurdity and pathetic notions and swear to never return again, yet all is forgotten as he dispenses a dedicated smile, reducing me to a giggly blushing twelve year old. That has always been a huge part of the allure. For all of you out there doubting that Mr. Franco is great and powerful, let me confirm his magical smile as it has the ability to shave decades off a woman's age, rendering her to a silly preteen. It never ceased to amaze me that I - a well composed, eloquent, forceful, mature woman of 37 - could be reduced to a babbling fool by the cheer whimsy of a kind sincere smile. Experiencing the antithesis of Amira (at least who I am expected to be) was intoxicating. I indulged in my Franco habit in hopes of sustaining the euphoric bliss. Our serendipitous chance and planned encounters miraculously aligned with either holidays I was celebrating alone in NYC or receiving dispiriting news from back home. I hung onto the feeble moments of juvenile joy to hide away from my bleak reality. I allowed myself to regale in these events as long as they made me happy, that is until the last book signing at The Strand - Quel Cauchemar !

I stumbled across this event in the comments section of one of Franco's Instragrams with a remark of "See you at The Strand". Curiosity lead me to the event page of www.strandbooks.com. Tucked snuggle in the October calendar was James Franco's book signing for the release of his novel "Actors Anonymous". I immediately reached for my credit card and purchased admissions a month in advance. I won't state the obvious and call this an impulse purchase - as it definitely was, but I was also motivated by two factors,

1. The first signing I attended for Mr. Franco was in July - also at The Strand - for his book "A California Childhood". The book was released in March, thus I already owned a copy and really didn't need a second one. I opted for the gift card option (which I used to buy his chap book "Strongest of The Litter") to gain access to the event. An interesting discussion led by Frank Bidart preceded the signing. I even got to ask James a question, but I didn't get a signed copy of the book. At the time I didn't think much about having a signed copy
2. Early September, I attended another signing for his art book "Moving Pictures / Moving Sculptures" at the PACE Gallery in Chelsea. I stood before him as he sat at a table and signed his name with a doddle of a decrepit smilie face ( BTW James what's up with those smilie faces. They're not even smilie faces. They have a coned shaped nose, so that makes them more of a snowman. Therefore there's a headless snowman somewhere. Moreover, why do they have stubble? any way). We engaged in small talk and I got a dedicated  smile, all for me, just for me. 

As a result I really really wanted a signed copy of Actors Anonymous, in hopes of getting another smile. So without hesitation I purchased admission and resolved to be at The Strand on October 13 at 7:00 pm.

On the day of , I arrived at 5:20 pm, almost three hours before the event, as it was pushed to 8:00 pm, only to find that a queue had already started. I took my place inline. Equipped with a book, I was ready for the wait. While the staff handed out the wristbands, they informed us that the books will be signed but not personalized (i.e. no meeting James and thus no individual smiles will be dispensed upon us like pixie dust).  Dismayed at the news, I debated leaving then and there but I wanted my already paid-for book. At 7:00 pm we were ushered into the loft to discover that it was standing room only. My initial reaction was, "I'm too old for this shit!" I had a coveted spot near the roped off area. As more people joined the herd, they elbowed their way nearer to the podium thus crowding the space further with each human addition. My claustrophobia kicked in and I couldn't breath. I retreated to the far side of the loft. At the very end there was a dusty crate with two inhabitants on the top. I asked their permission to join them and they obliged (they were a nice couple). Since I had a good vantage point of the podium from my seated position, but not for long, I really shouldn't complain but I'm afraid it just got worse from this point onwards. Franco didn't show up until 8:30 pm (bless the heart of those who kept standing around the podium for him, some of them were in heels for crying at loud!). By then the loft was half full and I couldn't see James atop the podium from any angle, nor could I hear him well. The only remedy would have been to stand on top of the crate with the others, but neither my knees nor my ego would permit this. The place was just insanely crazy. As Franco embarked on step number five of Actors Anonymous, I decided to leave. I limped down five flights of stairs and claimed my pre-signed copy at the exit. I rushed to Union Square and took the R train back to Herald Square, then I ran to Penn Station to catch the 8:55 LIRR train. Next morning I woke up to an array of aches and pains traversing my body, reminding me yet again that I'm too old for this shit and apparently too short to handle the Franco pandemonium.

I don't blame James for the atrocious time I had. I blame The Strand. Needless to say, I will not be attending any of their future events. But I also owe them a debt of gratitude for making me retire my Franco colored glasses and revert back to a normal admirer of his art.

This is The End vs. Bridesmaids

Despite having much to do this past weekend between packing for my two-week trip back home to my beloved Egypt, laundry, cleaning, and last minute gift shopping, I carved out two hours on Saturday to see "This is The End". I confess that I had planned to see the apocalypse flick the moment I saw a teaser last December. Even with "The Man of Steel" being released on the same weekend, it was no contest. Seth Rogen and clan won hands down. Although much was left undone, I am happy that I chose to see This is The End. I was in need of a good laugh. The movie delivers on the comedy with a side of nostalgia (at least for me).

On Sunday, as I was sitting on a park bench, sipping my coffee and contemplating nothing, I realized that This is The End is Bridesmaids on testosterone. I don't suppose Rogen and Goldberg - who co-wrote and directed This is The End - realized the parallels between the two films. If they did, I guess they didn't expect any audience crossover. Maybe I simply envisioned these similarities, nevertheless below is my rational, and beware they include spoilers for both flicks: 

• This is The End is marketed as an apocalypse action comedy, yet the foundation of conflict is based on Seth and Jay's deteriorating relationship due to Seth's ascension into the Hollywood crowd while Jay remains in their Canadian homeland. At the end their friendship is reshaped and reinstated by the apocalyptic events. Similarly, Bridesmaids was marketed as a raunchy female driven comedy in which Kristen Wiig's relationship with her childhood best-friend Maya Rudolph is crumbling as Maya's status is upgraded to engaged/ married woman while Kristen remains in the slums of singlehood. The relationship is further strained then strengthen during the planning of an apocalyptic wedding. 
• Further driving a wedge between the two friends is a pretentious 3rd party trying to encroach themselves onto the more affluent friend and edging out the other. At the end, this fraud is led to show their true colors and face an ill fated doom. The ever delectable James Franco is the pretentious artsy completely useless actor in This is The End. He keeps a food stash and monopolizes a Milky Way bar. At the end, Franco's soul is not redeemed but left to be ravished by Danny Mcbride and Channing Tatum. In Bridesmaids, Rose Byrne imposes on Maya's wedding preparations, pushing Wiig to the sidelines, only to fail in keeping the bride happy. At the end she resorts to Wiig to bring stability to the wedding. Coincidentally, Franco and Byrne co-stared together in "Dead Girl"
• At the beginning of This is the End, Seth and Jay bond over their favorite pass time, smoking weed. While Maya and Wiig engage in pastry consumption, as carbohydrates is women's weed. We love indulging in carbs although we know that no good can come of this gratification. Let's face it, Gluten is bad for you !
• Jonah Hill and Ellie Kemper are the too goody two shoes with something sinister simmering under the lid. Danny Mcbride and Wendi Mclendon-Covery are the foul mouths we love to hate. Craig Robinson and Melissa McCarthy are the misunderstood sweet hearts who hide a gooey center under a hard-shell facade, not unlike a Milky Way.
• Bathroom humor in Bridesmaids vs. Male Masturbation humor in This is The End.
• A wedding gone wrong is a female version of an apocalypse. A wedding done right is a female version of heaven.
• Both movies end with a scenic dance and sing along to a 90s hit with guest appearances from the bands. Perfectly aligned, the all girl band Wilson Philips belt out "Hold On" in Bridesmaids, while boy band Backstreet Boys are summoned to heaven with a Everybody prelude in This is The End. Sadly, I know the lyric to both songs, and thus the nostalgia. (Why did it say NKOTB rule on the chalk board ?)

In summation, This is The End is nothing more than a male version of Bridesmaids. That being said, I must confess that I prefer Seth Rogen over Kristen Wiig. I paid to watch This is The End, yet opted to catch Bridesmaids on cable. I laughed harder and thoroughly enjoyed This is The End. Not sure if this speaks more to the quality of both movies or my skewed personality. However, when the end is here, whether doomsday or wedding day, I wouldn't mind having James Franco by my side for either.

Adventures and New Things – Bird Shit

On the first day of 2013 I dared myself to live, to take a chance and step outside my comfort zones. I started by enrolling in a creative writing class as an outlet for my boredom. Truth be told, a writing class more hovered on the border of my comfort level and tumbled further into the zone with each session. During my master pursuit, I discovered that I savor learning. I have an insatiable appetite for knowing more. I flourished during my MBA studies. After graduating, I embarked on an endless journey of knowledge acquisition. I have been devouring volume upon volume of books ever since, sampling as many genres as possible. Therefore, a writing course seemed like the natural progression. It gave me the opportunity to return to my beloved class room format, bounce ideas around with my fellow students, and explore the option of phrasing the acquired knowledge in my own words. I admit it was a very enjoyable experience. However, I still wanted to challenge myself to venture further away from my comfort zone. In this attempt, I attended a performance art performance and a literary reading.

As an ardent Franco Fan (i.e. James Franco), I follow him on Twitter (duh!). I must be honest and attest that Franco isn’t a good tweeter. He always tweets pictures, rarely adding captions. His tweets are irregularly spaced, so you never know when you’ll get a post. As a result, his mystery encased pictures have become sort of surprise. They come in a slew of many consecutive tweets, bearing the unknown. Early March, one of his ominous tweets came a chirping. He was advocating a show called “Bird Shit” that was scheduled to show at MoMA PS1 in Long Island City on April 7^th. The promotional webpage stated that the project was under Franco’s guidance as the performance was delivered by NYU students. A major sponsor pulled out four weeks prior to the performance. James (yes, we are on first name bases) was helping raise money for the project.”Ahhhhh! How sweat”, was my immediate thought. Bird Shit was inspired by Chekhov’s Seagull and Ginsberg’s Kaddish. It employed a multitude of media, song, dance, images, and live performance. I was intrigued. Knowing nothing about the Seagull and Kaddish, I set out to research both. I was intrigued further. Since the show was scheduled for a Sunday, I resolved to go and see it.

I arrived at MoMA PS1 at 11:53 am and waited in line for the doors to open. I noticed that there were several families in line. I took this to be a sign that I will enjoy the art on display, given that it would appeal to a toddler.  The museum promptly opened at noon as we filed into the admissions structure to purchase tickets. Bird Shit was scheduled to start at 14:00 in the VW Dome. I decided to explore the exhibits during those two superfluous hours. Having visited MoMA in Manhattan, I naïvely assumed I could digest the modern arts. There definitely were too contemporary pieces that I couldn’t understand, such as a large white canvas with small orange dots aligned in vertical and horizontal lines. However, there also were the Monets, Picassos, and Pollocks which I immensely enjoyed. I thought MoMA PS1 was merely a smaller version of MoMA. I was deeply mistaken. It is smaller in terms of square footage, but the art on display is quite different. Each exhibit is snuggly tucked away in its own enclosed space. The exhibits on display that day were engaging with the use of light, sound, and graphics. Yet, they weren’t quite for me. I feel guilty because I’m unable to give the artist their due. I didn’t retain enough details to describe why I wasn’t attracted to the displays. I found myself interested in the building more than the art. I stood at a window sill on a landing along the stairwell, gazing at the post office building across the street. I marveled at the additional details that appeared with each floor I ascended. I was done with exploring MoMA PS1 within 50 minutes, which was sad. I sat outside reading “In Cold Blood” by Truman Capote and brushed gravel induced dust off my face as I waited for Bird Shit to begin.

The VW Dome was in sight from my vantage point on a bench by the entrance to M. Wells Dinette. In case you are wondering why I elected to sit outside, the restaurant was packed with Sunday Brunchers and a long queue of want-to-be diners waiting to be seated. At 13:30 people started to line up for the show. I claimed my place in line, eagerly waiting to flash my hot pink wristband as verification that I purchased a ticket. I felt awkward standing among the eclectic crowd of young hipster, NYU art students, and mature art aficionados. Measured against the hipsters, I amounted to a hobbit, more Bilbo Baggins than Frodo. In contrast to the cool crew, I was short, dumpy and old. Measured against the older audience, I was a fraud. I lacked their maturity and sophistication. Nevertheless, I stood firmly in line, refusing to be intimidated by the experience. I buried my head in my book, willing the doors to open so I can escape the chilling weather. At 13:55 I heard the rusted squeak of a metal door opening ajar. People gasped and proclaimed, “That’s him!” I was too engrossed in my book to care. Moreover, I was standing behind a seven foot giant with my forehead hovering dangerously near his elbow. I could not see who “him” was, even if I wanted to. Over the masses, I heard a familiar voice, a voice I had heard a million times in the YouTube videos I religiously watch. It was James Franco in the flesh. Apparently, he stepped out of the theater to announce, “Guys, we’re really sorry but we’re having some technical issues and the show’s going to be a few minutes late. We’re really sorry about the delay.” He swiftly disappeared back into the dome, leaving us all, or maybe just me, craving for more. My face flushed. Had I known that Franco would be in attendance, I would not have come to the performance. I didn’t want to appear as a James Franco stalker, least of all to myself. But I was there. I had already purchased a ticket. There was nothing I could do at that point. Nevertheless, I felt sheepish, like a groupie following a rock star from one concert to the next.

Evidently, not only was Franco present but he was also part of the performance. He introduced Bird Shit with his signature modest and humble demeanor, thanking the audience for coming, reassuring us that the show wasn’t long, and hoping we’ll enjoy it. The VW dome is a very intimate setting. A small white stage stood erect in the middle, surrounded by five rows of folding chairs arranged in a hexagon and cordoned by the live band and technical stations. Next to this technical station, Franco stood in attention for the entire performance, overlooking his students perform. The light contrast between the dim theater and sunlit outer space was blinding. I could barely see as I entered the dome. I followed the silhouette of the lady in front of me until I found a seat to my liking. I immediately scoped out the space. There was an elaborate mechanical contraption affixed from a scaffold over the stage. Based on the promotional image of a man with white slimy substance covering his face, the show’s title, and the plastic lining the floor I correctly guessed the devise would dispense something during the performance. There were also three large projectors positions as the apexes of an invisible equilateral triangle hovering above the stage.

As promised, Bird Shit incorporated dialogue, dance, song, and prerecorded performances projected on the ceiling. Having done my homework before hand, I was able to recognize the Chekhov and Kaddish references with ease. After my experience with MoMA PS1 art, I was afraid that the performance would escape the grasp of my feeble mind as I intellectually struggled to comprehend the abstract. However, I was able to follow Bird Shit from the very first mega images of Franco projected on the ceiling with him disparaging fame and all the way through until the poor female lead was dragged out into the cold courtyard and drenched with water. I enjoyed every aspect of the performance, including the indecipherable songs. The show stayed with me as I darted from the theater on my way out, purposely avoiding Franco.  It still remains firmly in memory and mind three weeks later.

I had so many questions to ask, but I didn’t have a companion with whom I could ponder. I decided to file away these inquiries until the next time I encounter Franco. However, my take on Bird Shit is that we must endure the consequences of our choices, even when these byproducts are the shit we have to deal with every day. Fame is an unwanted result of living in the spot light. Some artists do not pursue fame, they simply desire the art. Yet, they have to accept the notoriety. I’m not sure if my interpretation of Bird Shit is what Franco had intended. Honestly, I don’t care. I was able to identify with this notion as I strive to deal with my own bird shit.

Pining for Ryan Gosling

I intended to see The Place Beyond The Pines upon viewing the preview for the first time. The image of Ryan Gosling speeding into the tree lined horizon of upper New York was mesmerizing. I was curious to find out what he will bring to the character. Then, mixed reviews came in. Everyone praised Gosling's performance, he never disappoints, yet most found the three part vignettes disjointed and that the movie ran too long. With the film in limited release, I wondered if it was worth venturing out to Manhattan to see it. As my enthusiasm wavered and the film descended to the bottom of my to-see queue, I came across James Franco's review in the Huffington post (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/james-franco/ryan-gosling-place-beyond-the-pines_b_3014853.html). Franco's post about The Place Beyond The Pines is poignant, exhilarating and downright beautiful. He paints a vivid picture of Gosling (The Gos). He masterfully crafts each sentence in appraising the performance both individually and collectively. After reading the review, I too wanted to make love to the movie. Having availability this weekend, I decided to dedicate three hours to the appreciation of the Gos. With every scene, Franco's voice echoed in my head as if he was sitting right there whispering the film's narrative into my ear.

Despite being a bit long, with an over indulgent mid-section, The Place Beyond The Pines is an enjoyable experience. Having read the reviews prior to seeing the movie, I had a feed-forward on the events and the story's progression. This, however, did not diminish from the film's magnificence.   Gosling evokes a magnitude of emotions. I swooned, I smiled, and I cried. Gosling's rendition of the troubled soul but good at heart Luke is so consuming, you crave him in every scene. I wonder how different Bradley Cooper's chapter would have been if Gosling was cast in the role. I was eager to see him spar with Ray Liotta. Not to fault Cooper, for it is refreshing to see him convey other sentiments rather than disdain from behind his Hangover glasses. But how can he follow Gosling's performance - no one can. In large part, this is the reason Cooper's vignette seems over drawn. However, Cooper was successful in getting the audience to dislike Avery despite sympathizing with his character.

The Place Beyond The Pines plays like an inverted sandwich, with the dull stale slice of bread encased between two meat patties. The last portion of the movie is a powerful bookend to Gosling's chapter, bringing together the fate of our antagonistic protagonists. The film's major premises, as Franco so eloquently states, is a Shakespearean Sins of our Fathers. It begs the question, are we destined to follow in the footsteps of our fathers regardless how much or how little influence they had in our lives? As if our destiny is preordained by our genes not our actions. The movie also touches on the dichotomy of good and bad, more of the contrast between what society, and perhaps the viewer, deems as good or bad and the intentions of individuals. We often set out to do good, but in a bad way with the notion of the ends justify the means. However, when is this conflict accepted both publicly and privately. This brings us to another theme, conforming to society. The more we conform and assimilate with the masses, the more forgiving people will be of our sins. As opposed to loner stoners who do what they want as they deem appropriate. Society more readily judges and prosecutes their sins because they are viewed as renegades and outsiders. The Place Beyond The Pines raises the question, which of our two antagonistic heroes will die with a clear conscience.

After reading Franco's post, I was hesitant to publish this review. My writing could never so articulate my sentiment in such a profound manner as Franco's review. Whenever I try to wean myself off this Franco crush, he does something so admiral that elevates him to new heights, so admiral that he would serenade the performance of a fellow actor and pine for the Gos! If The Place Beyond The Pines is not on your must-see list, may I suggest that you read Franco's review and then decide. I guarantee that you'll speed out the door in search for a showing upon reaching the last words - Burn Hard Baby!