How shaking my behind made me who I am today...

A small visual sampling of my awesome moves...

In retrospect, it seems that during the time of adolescence, there were at least three distinct genres of people: the people who were "cool," the people who were willing to do anything or die trying to "be cool" and those who had college to look forward to for any small hope of a social existence. I definitely fit into the latter of the categories. Unlike my mother who, by the age of 12, was tall, beautiful and charismatic with long, formerly-blonde hair (she still claims to be blonde, but it's just not the case), I was a scrawny four-eyed runt with a big mouth and an overly-active imagination. The fact that I survived junior high school was by divine providence for certain. Had I been born in a more primitive time, I would surely have been phased out quickly under the auspices of "survival of the fittest," that is unless dorky butt-shaking and high kicks to eclectic and out of style music would have been considered a survival skill. If that were the case, I would have at least been able to puzzle my predators before making a quick getaway...

For me, college was the time I finally blossomed into the amazingly wonderful person that I am today. In art school, nearly everyone was a little off-center, so having a few bizarre personality defects wasn't looked at in a negative light. I went to a large state university where the visual art department was sequestered safely in a forgotten and undesirable corner of the campus. Aside from required general education courses, I rarely left the little art bubble which was always engulfed in a cloud of cigarette smoke, the aroma of cheap coffee and fumes of paint-thinner. It was there I learned how the fantastic side effects of prolonged sleep deprivation and mental over-exertion could bring people together to form unlikely bonds over seemingly meaningless common experiences. I also learned the importance of letting loose every now and then to deal with sleepless nights in the painting studios finishing countless assignments that have since been forgotten completely. All that remains are the friends I've held on to, and the knowledge that we were all part of the common struggle that has lead us all on sordid paths of ruin and financial instability. Every Thursday night, a particularly special group of friends would all meet at bicycle shop/bar for $1 local microbrews (oh, how very Colorado) and old music on the jukebox. To the tunes of James Brown, Michael Jackson, Devo and other fabulous entertainers from the murky recesses of the available albums in the machine, I learned that although I may not have looked very smart or conventionally "cool," my bizarre and inventive dance moves made me quite popular among the well-libated college crowd of artists, hippies and other friendly drunks.

Although my undergraduate years, all 6 of them, were filled with many good times and happy booty-shakin' memories, I quickly learned that life after school became progressively less exciting. Slowly all of the bicycle bar buddies from Thursday nights of yore went our separate ways and, for the most part, we all found new adventures to pursue.  Upon finding myself eventually in New York City, far away from friendly faces and familiar beers I had grown so fond of, I realized just how precious those quirky experiences were. I've also realized that age is a funny thing, and although I still believe myself to be both "young and fun," youth and amusement are very relative terms...

This winter I was thrust into a lively social situation during a seasonal job in holiday retail with Esprit on Fifth Avenue at Rockefeller Center. I worked there, folding sweaters and swiping credit cards during my evenings and weekends for three months, in which I decided to forgo sleep and/or sanity. The majority of the people I worked with were not born until after the ball dropped in 1990, and for the first time in my life, I was one of the "older people" in the group. This was a startling new experience for me. Given that even in my own age group I am quite a bit out of touch, to all of these people, I probably seemed like a space alien. I know very little of current TV, as I've not had cable since Friends was on the air, and I know even less of popular music. I should also mention that by the time I arrived at Esprit every evening, I had already worked 9 hour shifts at my "real job," and my mental clarity had been worn quite thin. In addition, I should also mention that when tired, my socially awkward tendencies burble to the surface and my concern over the rules of propriety wanes. As the environment was one of fashion retail in one of the most exclusive shopping districts in the world, a horrible mixture of utra-hip music was always pouring out of surround-sound speakers abundantly furnished around the store. To pass the time, I did what any frazzled idiot might do, and I would channel my youthful days of Thursday night splendor and make my own dance party on the sales floor of Esprit Rockefeller Center. Doing my own modifications of the mashed potato, the Charleston, strange references to high kicks by the Rockettes and variations of moves from Frankie and Annette films, I would blithely pass my time physically making fun of the Lady Gaga remixes and Rhianna songs I was subjected to as my coworkers stood by. After a while, I was accepted as the funny "older" nerdy guy who made people laugh by making an ass of myself. Some of the people would even join in and try to either match or out-do my awesome moves (which really isn't hard to do). Eventually, my willingness to be an idiot paid off and made me quite popular in a strange sort of way with the crowd of retail workers, mostly in their late teens.

From the experience, I learned that even in the unlikeliest of circumstances, a positive attitude and a lack of pride can go a long way in breaching certain social barriers. As time moves on and I slowly settle into being a "grown up," I know that I have a great deal of youthful "joi de vivre" to draw from in the form of moronic body movements. I am certain that even in the most taxing of circumstances, such as working the equivalent of two full time jobs at once, there is joy to be found when you can let go and dance like nobody's watching (even if you know people are staring and pointing and laughing)...

Life in a frozen metropolis...

A day spent walking in Central Park, enjoying the balmy New York winter...

The fact that there is any sort of tourist industry at all in New York City is a testament to the number of cultural offerings and fine dining establishments for which the city has to boast, for nobody in their right mind visits for the weather. I have concluded that there are roughly 4 weeks of pleasant weather during the entire year in the city, two in the spring and two in the fall. During the summer, the heat and humidity are reminiscent of a moldy locker room shower stall in a junior high school located on the outskirts of hell, and in the winter the howling wind and black snow that refuses to fully melt is a happy reminder that frost bite isn't just something you were told about in stories, but it is an experience available to all. This being said, my first winter in the city, although rather uncomfortable, has been filled with many crystalline wonders which are inexplicable to me considering how much I dislike cold in general. Somehow, with chattering teeth and cheeks burned raw by the icy winds, I have managed to find the frozen world of the city quite beautiful...

Although my childhood was spent in the snowy mountains of Colorado where my father taught specialized courses in winter survival with the sun shining on high alpine peaks and the birds singing songs in the fairy-tale-esque environment of the Rocky Mountain winters, I feel completely ill-equipped for the season "back east." When we would have blizzards back home, it just meant we'd turn on the 4 wheel drive in our Subarus, get out our polar fleece lined Columbia jackets and lace up our Sorels while continuing on with our lives. Sure, a foot or two of snow on the ground would slow us down a bit, but it wouldn't stop us. In my entire K-12 education, despite numerous heavy snow storms, we had one "snow day" ever, and that was in 1990 when there were two feet of snow that fell over night, and the school buses couldn't be freed from their ice-prison before the morning.

On the day after Christmas this year, we had a snow storm in the city that shut everything down, causing chaos and pandemonium for all five boroughs. I happened to be working my temporary job in holiday retail that night as the blizzard was in full force. Even snow blowing in horizontally from all cardinal directions wouldn't stop bargain shoppers on Fifth Avenue. As taxis slid past stop lights and hot dog vendors drug their carts out of the streets into unknown shelters (where do they go at night?), the lure of 50% off on all outerwear accessories kept salivating bargain hunters going through the thick of little Jack Frost's temper tantrum. By 9pm, the buses had stopped running, but the sales went on. By the time I got out of work at 11pm, the scene was akin to a cold war era film about nuclear holocaust. Taxis had stopped running completely, and bicycles were abandoned in the middle of the streets. Half the trains had been shut down, and so the few subway stations still in operation looked like bomb shelters with weary frozen souls huddled together hanging on to the hope that the train would eventually come and warm beds would be waiting at the end of so many long journeys home. I saw one woman with a rosary clasped in her hands, whispering prayers to herself while a herd of tiny children clung to her soggy legs.

The train finally came, and slowly it slid into each stop on the icy tracks until I finally made it back up to the Columbia University station. When I made it out of the frozen little hole in the ground, back up to the street level, I had to walk in the tracks being made by a woman 3 feet ahead of me. We made an unspoken agreement with our eyes that whosoever should be blown down by the wind into the snow would be the responsibility of the other. It just so happened that she turned two blocks before my street, and I was blown on my backside down into a snow bank exactly one block after we parted ways...

It took nearly a week for all the streets to be plowed and for the city to begin operating on time again. I found it humbling that in one of the largest metropolitan cities in the world, filled with vast resources and cutting edge technologies, life could still be brought to a lurching halt by a phenomenon as basic as the snow. It seems that only in a "state of emergency" will the city slow itself down and take a bit of a needed rest. It was a beautiful thing to wake up in the morning without the sound of a single car horn or ambulance rushing down the streets. Everything was still and calm, and for the first time since moving to the city, there was a soft quietness in the air. Once the snow had stopped, the sun came out and children were sledding in the park outside of my front window. It felt like some sort of Frank Kapra type moment that should have been experienced in black and white. By the following day, life was delayed, but slowly went back to the normal loud and intense hustle I have grown accustomed to. I was glad that after a season of working 75 hours per week between two jobs, New York had given me a much needed snow day to sit back and catch my breath.

The underground kingdom of Dr. Zizmor...

The good doctor himself, looking down at the world from above...

As a child, my relationship with daily transportation was one wrought with toil and grief provided by a succession of partially-functioning automobiles my parents seemed to attract like lost kittens. Often, our Volkswagen Microbus would only start with the aid of my mother's prayers, said aloud in the front seat after numerous failed attempts at getting the wretched thing to start. On occasions when the prayers went unanswered, during particularly cold winter mornings, she'd have to get a hammer from the glove box and crawl under the car to beat on the machine's underbelly, which did the trick, and off we'd go to church. Getting from point A to point B was frequently a great deal of work, especially when relying on divine intervention. Now, relying entirely on various forms of public transit to make it from one place to another, I have become a mean and surly urbanite with sharp elbows and a furrowed brow. Transportation in New York is proof of Darwin's theories regarding the survival of the fittest. He who doesn't fight for his life doesn't make it on the morning train...

Deep under the ground, there is a world that exists free of sunlight and taxis and the warbles of dirty pigeons. It is a world where the rules of the vertical world seem vaguely inconsequential and a subterranean horizontal reality takes over. Surrounded by strangers, packed into small metal boxes that are controlled and thrust about by unseen hands, one tends to pay more attention than usually given to any brightly colored distraction from the rush-hour transit claustrophobia festival at hand. Peering out at the huddled masses from illuminated placards running along the ceilings of the subway cars are static faces offering promises of varying nature. Some promise wealth, some promise speedy divorces and some promise medical miracles, but the faces promising eternal youth and beauty are the most powerful of all, especially when surrounded by so many specimens of the human race that appear to have seen better days.

There is an undisputed king of these purveyors of affordable hope; he stares out from a backdrop of sunshine and rainbows. He is the great and powerful Dr. Zizmor and for an agreement of mere financial servitude, he will make you beautiful in as little as one lunch break with his collection of magical potions and mystical secrets. Somehow, although time keeps passing, his likeness in his photographs hasn't changed in 20 years, nor has the quality or aesthetic sensibility of his graphic designer. Having never met the man myself, he seems like a mythical creature, akin to the great Oz behind the curtain. While the other subway wizards may offer things like "free" abortion alternatives, help with sexual dysfunctions and speedy bankruptcies (seemingly grand and complicated problems with even grander necessities for resolution), Dr. Zizmor tells you that YOU TOO can be beautiful with little to no effort on your own part. Although he uses outdated and rather pathetic methods to do so, there is a simplicity to his offer that is warm and inviting, and besides, who can be very intimidated by a man who looks like a muppet? I find that the testimonials from his loyal subjects, which are a key component in every version of his subway posters, add that little something extra to make you feel like you're reading the cliff's notes from an infomercial, and who doesn't like that?

Anyone who has lived in New York for any length of time knows of the technicolor subway skin doctor, but perhaps not all have the fondness for him that I do. There is something endearing about the way his images seem to be frozen in the late 1980's, and they never seem to progress or innovate. His schtick hasn't, and most likely, it will never change. He connects us with memories of an increasingly less-tangible past, one without wifi and text messaging and photoshop, a simpler time when lots of labor would go into making a single mix-tape on cassette. I suppose that my recent fatigue brought on by working 70 hours per week between two different jobs has taken a toll on my sanity, and this is why Dr. Zizmor is speaking to me in such a way. At least he hasn't animated himself in my mind when I am stuck focusing on him rather than the fact that I've been physically violated by everyone who has gotten on and off the train while I patiently wait for my stop. In a city that is so focused on forward motion, I find it sort of wonderful to see something that refuses to move on...