putting the j in jjosh

This banner is from Hawaii, one of last days there when Maxine directed us to this beach and reef on the South side of Oahu…it was gorgeous…because it was a wildlife refuge, before you were allowed in they made you watch a video about not walking on the reef or feeding the animals…sure enough, while there we saw tons (!) of people walking on the reef and feeding the animals. It was nuts! WHAT’S WRONG WITH THESE PEOPLE?!?!?! Do they really just not get it? How much heavier can the message get than to have to watch a MANDATORY video. Infuriating.

Maxine took the above pic, as well as this random sampling of other shots below…

Probably the best thing we did on the whole trip was when we went to the island of Kauai…it was smaller than Oahu, we stayed in a B&B two blocks from the beach, in the town of Hanalei — which is mentioned in Puff the Magic Dragon! "…and frolicked in the autumn mist, of a land called Hanalei…" That’s where we took the helicopter trip that blew all of our minds. This is the coast of the island, featuring a perilous hiking trail.

This was a painter named Alex that Maxine befriended. We ended up buying a pen and ink drawing from him, he was pretty interesting. Kauai was full of interesting and friendly characters.

It was completely weird that it would be sunny and warm with a slight breeze and everyone would be going "Hey, it feels like Christmas!" There’d be all these Santas and Christmas decorations going up, and you’d be in shorts. It messed with my head. The weirdest thing by far was that they’ve kept all the snow assocations with Christmas, so you’d also see all these snowmen and polar bears and snowflakes, even though there’s not a hint of cold anywhere. This one cracked me up every time, with Santa dressed for cold and on a polar bear, but between two flaming tikki torches.

The first morning after we arrived in Kauai we were pretty jet-lagged and ended up waking up before the sunrise. Maxine and I walked down to the beach and the moon was huge and bright, setting on the horizon. Magnificent. Katie had been telling me about how on every vacation she likes to get a fake-perspective photo, even though it’s goofy. So Maxine took this one of me, and it kind of takes my breath away. One of my favorite shots of the whole vacation.

When we moved a couple of weeks ago, we really tried to streamline our stuff so that we weren’t moving things we were just going to get rid of. So I had to make a lot of tough calls as far as stuff that I’d had in my closet for years — why was I holding on to this stuff? Could I get rid of it? I got rid of a lot of it.

What gave me most pause though, was saying to good-bye to my most favoritest of hats. It was really coming apart, with a hole in the front that was starting to fray and deteriorate even more. It was time to say goodbye.

I got that hat years ago, I can’t even remember where now. I remember I got it, and it wasn’t until I was showing it to someone else (Joey D?) that they pointed out that inside it there was a tag with the hat’s make printed on it in great olde-germany script: The Country Gentleman. THE COUNTRY GENTLEMAN! So perfect. Here’s the last picture of my hat…

And the Country Gentlemen went all around the world….the UK, France, Spain, Chile, Argentina, Prague, the forests of Bohemia…it went to every Burning Man and PDF and camping trip…

Here’s at PDF, in a wading pool full of rose petals, and making the scene with a giant scimitar…

The Country Gentleman was also indispensible on camping trips…here’s one where I went with JW and a bunch of his pals and I had to participate in this crazy initiation-style blindfold test…

I was blindfolded, then led deep into the forest and brought up to a tree. I was told to get to know the tree, learn it, hand out with it, blindfolded all the time. I was then led back through the twisty trail to our camp. They then took the blindfold off and told me I had to find my tree. What they didn’t know was that I had a feeling that this would happen so I put a branch down by the trunk of the tree so I could find it. After I found it relatively easily (they still had to give me clues), and I told them how I did it, people were complaining that I had "cheated"! Cheated? How to you cheat in a blindfolded camping initiation?!

Also a notable camping trip because it was the first time I fired a gun…

The hat also journeyed with me to Spain…here we are in the hills of La Mancha, hanging out with the windmills that made Don Quixote tilt…

One time Maxine and I were staying with LoriB in Chelsea. She lived on a 5th-floor walkup, and the stairs were a major pain in the ass. One night I was heading out to meet Maxine somewhere. I went down all the stairs, wearing my hat, only to find that it was pouring rain outside. Rather than go all the way back up, I just reached up and stuck the hat up on top of a maintenance ladder, sort of out of the way. I figured no-one would see it, you know, and I could just pick it up when we came home that night.

But when we came back that night it was gone! No way!! Who would take the Country Gentleman?!

So we drafted a "lost hat" flyer and posted them in the building. Maxine drew the hat, and made it think "Vincent Van Gogh" to give an idea of the style…

I also love the "no questions asked". I pretty much figured that hat was gone, and that would be that. But a couple of days later, it was returned to Lori! Her building super had come across it and thought someone was getting rid of it (fair enough). A month or so after that, the Country Gentleman and I were reunited.

Now, years later, it is time to say goodbye.

It is a teary farewell, but like George Harrison always said, "All Things Must Pass."

I will miss thee, Country Gentleman, fare thee well in the great adventure-ground where all great hats must go when they die…

If I had the time, I’d figure out how to make one of those animating gif’s so I could watch this over and over and over in a loop…

Wow, I can’t stop looking at this picture. From Wired, a small article on these circular clouds that form in Australia, can be up to 600 miles long and move at 35 mph. They don’t know why they form, which is wild. They’re known as Morning Glory clouds.

(not my photo)

Six years ago I was in Puerto Rico at a meditation retreat. It was 10 days, no talking, and we ate very little, mainly fruit in the evenings. After it was over, I had a couple of days before my plane back to DC, so some of the locals suggested I go to the island of Vieques which was nearby. It was a fantastic and surreal experience. I wasn’t used to the sound of voices, or thinking, or doing things. I was still meditating every day, and trying to eat the same.

I took the ferry over there and it was full of people going for the weekend — loud families and kids, beach balls, towels, little portable radios. I went to a recommended hotel (balcony overlooking the ocean) and ate at a recommended "fonda", sort of like a working-class diner. I went in there and they looked at me like who the hell are you?! But I was all meditated out and it didn’t phase me.

In the meditation, towards the end, they have you do this thing where you really focus on every bite of food you take, focus on chewing it, and swallowing it. It’s really weird, try it. Hard to do for any length of time. I was doing this in the fonda and it was kind of blowing my mind. I had been told to rent a 4×4 and go to Green Beach. "It’s out of the way, but amazing," a friend told me at the retreat. So I did. It was a bit of a trek to get the beach, but once there, I was all alone on this amazing beach, surrounded by mangroves (maybe, something with crazy roots anyway). I went swimming and the sun beat down and it was amazing.

There were these birds that would go way up into the air and then dive down, spiralling into the water for fish. A local guy told me that this eventually led to the birds going blind, because they kept their eyes open while they dived. I saw another strange bird, kind of like a big gull, up on a little sand hill on the beach, and some strange childish mania gripped me. I started chasing the bird.

The bird was squawking like crazy, yelling at me, and running down the beach. It wouldn’t fly away. I was kind of intoxicated by the scene, the adventure, my mind-state, and kept chasing, like it was a pigeon and I was 5. It kept yelling, and running. I was laughing like crazy, jumping and waving my arms. The bird went bezerk. And then I saw that there was a nest there, that I had been chasing this bird from its nest, there were eggs in it, and the bird had been trying to protect its eggs. When I realized what had happened, I stopped in my tracks. I felt profoundly guilty, epic amounts of guilt, truckloads of guilt. I couldn’t believe what I had been doing. Why was I doing it? What in the world was going on?

The guilt passed, I calmed down, and left the bird alone. I went back to swim in the warm, crystal clear water.

Post Script: something compels me to let you all know that the bird went back to its nest and as I swam around, watching it from afar, everything seemed to be fine.

I’ve been reading (courtsey kottke) this amazing New Yorker profile on Ricky Jay, the master sleight-of-hand conjurer and expert on the history of magic and cons. It’s fantastic. In the blog post, kottke then links to one of Jay’s tricks, and it’s right up my street — clever, old-timey, shmancy patter…good stuff…watch the cards…

Two things:

1. They have these great bagels where I’m working right now. In fact, these are the only bagels I’ve tasted while in NYC (admittedly a scant 2 years) that rival the bagels of our corner joint, Bagel World. Bagel World’s bagels are astounding. We pretty much only get them when we’ve got company staying, or are heading out on a road trip, or are taking them to M Devito. I can’t even describe how good they are.

But anytime I’m trying another bagel, I use Bagel World’s as my baseline. And no-one’s come close. Until I started working at this place Postworks in Soho. Their bagels are really good too. And they’re there every morning. I had to basically take a vow of chastity as far as eating them because lemme tell you, a bagel in the morning equals energy sugar crash at about 11am. But the point is, they’re good enough that I wanted to have one of those bagels and one of Bagel World’s right next to each other to do an A/B test to see which were better.

Now that the show I’m working on is beginning to heat up a little (our first deadline is Wednesday), I’ve been coming in early to get a headstart on the day (I owe that tip to JG from back at TVI). I burn out if I stay late, but coming in early is awesome. Nobody’s there, you can crank music if you want, you get the satisfaction of getting so much done before people even arrive.

Last week I came in really early, like arrived at 7:30am (ok, so it’s early to me, you farmers!), and there was a guy in the elevator with all these bags of delivery food. I figured they were for some meeting or something.

"That’s a lot of food…" I say.

"Yeah," he says in some kind of heavy accent, "and they’re all bagels!"

"Oh, you’re delivering the bagels that come every morning?"

"Yeah."

"Oh wow, I love those bagels." At this point the elevator has hit my floor (six). "Where are they from?"

"Oh you know hmwhafre plaza?" He says something totally unintelligble. The elevator doors open. I step out but hold them open.

"Where?"

"From the bagel place in hmwharfair plaza…"

At this point The elevator screams that it wants to move, and I can’t tell the guy that I STILL CAN’T UNDERSTAND HIM, so I go. I swear it sounded like "Warfare Plaza". I gotta find that place.

2. on the way in to work I listened to the Bonnie Prince Billy song "You Want that Picture", which I’ve always enjoyed as a really great duet and storysong. But this time I really heard the lyrics. So amazing. The chorus:

well it’s true that I cried
but then I went outside
and I stood very still in the night
and I looked at the sky
and knew someday I’d die
and then everything would be all right

it’s all right
and everything comes down to this
that everything there ever was
or will be
is all there is

Bonnie Prince Billy – You Want That Picture

Oh also remind me to tell you some time about Maxine & I seeing BPB at the Apollo and meeting him backstage afterwards and giving him a copy of our Musicwood DVD…

 because it’s Friday.

Today I opened the bathroom door pretty fast and almost clocked Philip Seymour Hoffman in the face. i apologized. Also, he’s a lot shorter than me.

Yesterday:

JOSH: I saw Philip Seymour Hoffman eating lunch again today. He had Chinese food and was laughing with his mouth full.

MAXINE: By himself?

JOSH: (uncontrollable laughter)

Philip Seymour Hoffman is working in the same building I’m working in, and he’s even on my floor. When I first saw him, he was walking through the kitchen, and I was heading to the elevators and I almost didn’t notice him until we walked past each other. Even then I kind of thought he might just be some guy who sort of looks like Philip Seymour Hoffman. Right after I passed him, I instinctively spun around to follow him and see if it was really him. I was even able to look up in the air and snap my fingers as though I’d just remembered something I forgot. That way, if anyone was watching me they wouldn’t think I was strange for suddenly spinning around to follow Phillip Seymour Hoffman.

From behind I was pretty convinced that it was indeed Philip Seymour Hoffman. He seemed to move like I thought he would, and he was wearing big old baggy shorts like I figured Philip Seymour Hoffman would wear. Then later I mentioned it to the producer I’m working with and she confirmed that yes, he was in the building.

When I was leaving work yesterday I joked to my producer that Phillip Seymour Hoffman and I were going out to get drinks, and that he only drinks ginger ale, and that I told him that was fine but I also admonished him "not to go all weird on me." For some reason this cracks me up, the image of me telling Philip Seymour Hoffman not to get all weird.

I imagined if I ran into him again I would tell him how much I appreciated his work when I saw him and John C. Reilly off Broadway in Sam Shepard’s "True West" back in 2000. Appeal to the actor in him, and reference a fairly obscure work. But then I remembered reading this thing about celebrities and how all they want is for people not to come up to them and say things.

Then today as I was heading out to the elevator to get lunch he was sitting at a table in the kitchen with some other folks, talking to them. One woman was sitting across from him with a look on her face that had a beautific quality to it, as though everything he said was the most interesting thing she’d ever heard. I wanted to get closer, so I pretended to get something out of the fridge. I walked over to it, couldn’t hear what he was saying, but heard his very distinctive, low voice. I opened the fridge door and then pretended that they didn’t have what I wanted and sort of closed the door with a look of disappointment on my face. I walked back to my edit room.

Once inside the room, I experimented with imitating Philip Seymour Hoffman’s voice, but I don’t think I did a very good job of it. I had him saying things like "What the fuck?!" and "I’m Philip Seymour Hoffman."

I left my room and headed out for lunch again. I had an empty seltzer can in my room and I figured I’d drop it in the recycling on my way to the elevators. As I rounded the corner, there was Philip Seymour Hoffman, also heading for the can recycling. He threw his in, and I tossed mine; they almost collided. I continued towards the elevators and I was pretty sure he was right behind me, but I couldn’t turn back and look. My sensitivity to this progressed to such a state that I couldn’t even hold the door open for him. I walked through and sort of pushed it wide, so that perhaps he could sneak through without having to open the door. But I timed it poorly and the door swung back fast, almost to smash him in the face.

I pushed the elevator call button, and then there we were, just the two of us. I faced him, ended up looking him in the eye. He was in baggy shorts again, and a plain white t-shirt that was wrinkled and a little too small for him. His arms seemed too short. His hair looked like serious bedhead and he had a patchy beard of stubble.

"Hey," he said.

"Hello," I replied.

And then for some reason I had to look away. I looked out the window at the sky, at the people walking down below. Sometimes I use this time to check if it’s raining, if I need to go back and get my umbrella, and I pretended that this was what I was doing. Today though this didn’t make a lick of sense; the sky was a brilliant blue.

The elevator came, the doors opened. It was fairly full and Philip Seymour Hoffman and I had to squeeze in. We were in each other’s space. I could see that he had a cigarette in his hand. I figure this is a sign of a serious smoker, that he’s not waiting until he gets outside to get the cigarette out, he wants to be as efficient as possible, to minimize his time before he’s smoking. Get it out now and get it ready.

In the elevator there is this horrible small tv screen that plays stock quotes and news capsules and weather. I hate the thing. I’ve fantasized about making stickers that are the exact size of the screen that say "stop watching this" and sticking them on the screens when I come in in the morning. But I figure they’d get me on cc tv and I’d be busted. The screen is particularly annoying in the morning first thing, so I’ve taken to riding the freight elevator up.

What’s particularly galling is that this small tv takes time to play little "channel id’s" and it’s known as the "Captivate Network". In other words, they KNOW that you’ve got nothing to do in the elevator, so you might as well get some advertising beamed into your brain. Even more galling (!!!) is that at the bottom of the screen is a little graphic that never goes away that says "you’re watching the captivate network." Fuck you, Captivate Network.

The elevator is really quite cramped, and I’m close enough to Philip Seymour Hoffman that it feels a little tense, a least to me, and yet for some reason Philip Seymour Hoffman is desperate to watch the Captivate Network. He kind of leans over awkwardly, having to get even more into my space so he can see the screen. And he looks at it, blank-eyed and slack-jawed. Basically a poster child for why I hate the Captivate Network.

And now he’s so close that I can smell him, actually smell what he smells like. This is weird. "Don’t get weird on me, Philip Seymour Hoffman," I think. He smelled odd but familiar, the phrase that popped into my head was that he smelled like "an old dad." Sweat and cigarettes and old white undershirt and human-ness.

And I think about this science-y thing I read at some point about smells, about how scents are actual molecules of the thing you’re smelling that are coming off of it and into your nose. Actual physical parts of that thing that trigger your nose and brain in some way that it reads like a scent, but it’s these molecules. I am actually inhaling microscopic pieces of Philip Seymour Hoffman. Everyone in the elevator is. In some weird way part of him is going in me, becoming me. I wonder if he can smell me. He must be able to.

He gets out of the elevator first and I am right behind him. But even with this small lag time between us, by the time I get outside he’s already smoking.

*****

(in NYC in 2000, in front of the poster for True West, I impersonate Philip Seymour Hoffman, Mike H impersonates John C. Reilly  – image courtesy our good friends at  balgavy.com)

I want to write a story about a guy who is walking on his way to work, lost in all the crap he has to take care of, when suddenly he smells the smell of a cafe grilling some meat and the smell just totally transports him.