La S came to visit last weekend. She wasn’t interested in much touristy stuff; besides the MoMA it was mostly casual hanging out. We did manage to eat some Artichoke Pizza, and got treated by her friends to dinner at En, where some dude named Jeremy wore a purple bow tie in honor of the Lakers. Yah, New York is weird.
If you’re coming to visit me here in Manhattan, don’t drive your car. After a fat parking ticket and two nights in a garage, la S concluded it would have been cheaper and taken less time to fly. Not only is parking expensive in Manhattan, it’s totally baffling. And as a car-free person, knowledge of the parking laws is something I have no interest in retaining in my brain. La S was annoyed by all my shrugging but I think she understands now that a casual understanding of the logic of the parking laws is impossible.
Anyway, la S has a theory that she’s a slow transition person; it takes her a long time to be ready to move on to the next thing. She knows this about herself, and tries to temper it for people like me–the “fast-transition people.” She can do fast transitions, but it stresses her out.
(La S’s brand of slow transitions is different from the socially slow transition people, who were scared to do anything without consensus. One time, while waiting over half an hour to leave the office with the group, my coworkers both told me to “chillax,” that I should “go with the flow.” Go with the flow? Bullshit. I am the flow. Go with me. )
I’ve always been a fast transition person, I like that about myself, I value it. It’s prolly because my dad is an achingly slow transition person; when we were piled in the car ready to leave, he was always doing one last irritating thing, like brushing his teeth or putting on his shoes. I always found that inconsiderate and horribly disrespectful to the people who are waiting, and that’s made me into the fast transition person I am today.
So I’ve been trying to theorize what makes someone a fast or slow transition person; why I have my keys out a mile from my house, whereas with the princess we were standing at her door for five minutes as she dug through her purse.
Today I was in the Dance Parade with my samba group; we started at 21st St. and Broadway, down around Union Square, down St. Mark’s Place into Tompkins Square Park. I’m told the parade started as a protest march against some old cabaret laws, making it illegal to dance in NYC.
After the parade we were milling around in Tompkins Square Park. I wasn’t dying of hunger but I knew it was time to eat. There were plans to get something to eat as a group, but the folks I was with were having a slow transition… just waiting to see what everyone else is doing. I thought, I am the flow.
So I went alone to the Tuck Shop and had a mince pie and a cooper’s stout. After that I came home and went to sleep. It was the middle of the afternoon, but I hadn’t slept well the night before.