Electric City: Colorful Memories

The end of this week also signifies the end of another Pride Week in New York City. This year, I can only celebrate the festivities by reading colorful articles in The Voice, as I am spending the summer in a house of beige and taupe. But that doesn't stop me from reminiscing.

During my first summer living in the city, it horrified me to learn that I had to return home the Saturday before Pride Week began. My six-week class ended just as the rainbows had begun to appear in downtown store windows and on Village-apartment balconies, and I sulked as we drove through the Holland Tunnel toward New Jersey and Pennsylvania.

I can’t exactly explain why I wanted so badly to be a part of a celebration that didn’t directly involve me. I’m a straight woman -- then 20 years old -- but I loved gayness. Until I had gone to college two years earlier, I had never even met an openly gay man. You don't get much fabulousness in rural Western Pennsylvanian high schools.

As a young, single woman, television and movies also had led me to believe that a girl's best friend is her stereotypically gay companion, so like any good hag, I had found myself several close fags and earned the right to use words and phrases like "fagtastic" and "you crazy homo."

The following year, I signed a lease from May to mid-August, and besides the Tony Awards, Pride Week was what I was all about. I guess in a way I fit into a gay-man stereotype myself. But the day of the parade, I woke up late and could hear the celebrating from my room on University Place. Unaware what time the parade had started, I was pissed that I hadn't awoken on time.

Luckily I planned my outfit days in advance -- a teal, baby-doll-dress tube top with a random sampling of hot pink, lime green and yellow hats, shoes and purses printed on it; thanks go to the fantastically trashy-trendy and inexpensive Joyce Leslie on the corner. My theme was to look like a rainbow, so I accented with glittery lime eye shadow and Barbie-pink lipstick. Some say I may have resembled a tiny drag queen; I say Hell yeah!

Once I reached Fifth Avenue and Eighth Street, I encountered a wall of spectators blocking any worthwhile view of what sounded like a noon-thirty dance party. Parking as close as I could to a supporting bar of a construction lattice, I could only see the tops of floats and feather head-wear. Unacceptable. I wove through the crowds and drove onto a section of Fifth that was north of the Washington Square Arch and had been barricaded.

People in the condos and apartments overlooking the street drank and watched the parade while I, with determination, eased my way into a small opening between a lesbian couple and a man with a video camera. I still didn't have the best view -- the NYPD barricade was at my eye level -- but it was good enough. I concluded that I could not move from this two-foot space -- no matter what.

Occasionally, a baby stroller or the aggressive half of the couple threatened my spot, but I held my ground and refused to be bullied even when she tripped over my footplates and almost fell onto my lap. My reward -- electric blue Mardi Gras beads courtesy of a 30-something-year-old gay gentleman. I wrapped them securely around my wrist, and they remain in my jewelry box to this day.

I had never experienced a NYC parade until that day, and I marveled at how much of a spectacle it was compared to the dinky parades at home, which consisted of a dozen veterans and Latrobe's Miss Fourth of July throwing candy from a convertable. The duration of the celebration was also impressive; I'd estimate over three hours.

The Pride Parade trumped them all -- except Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, of course. Admittedly I've never attended that either, but I cannot slander it out of principle. If the Pride Parade had giant penis and vagina balloons controlled by 20 twinks or 10 butch lesbians, however, look out. And aren't the Broadway numbers in Macy's a tad misplaced anyway?

After the final float had made its way toward the West Village and the crowd cleared and the ground was littered with queer-party flyers and confetti, I walked along Eighth Street dodging stragglers and phoned my friend, Gay Zach, who was coming into town from Philadelphia for five days. Five days that would test my ability not to strangle the drama queen with my new Mardi Gras beads.

Here's why: this article isn't by claire c. cake

As stated in my previous entry, I am currently reading Bill Walsh's Lapsing Into a Comma: A Curmudgeon's Guide to the Many Things That Can Go Wrong in Print--and How to Avoid Them. Walsh is the copy desk chief for the Washington Post, so I value his expertise on writing and the English language. At times, however, his guidelines contradict progressive, modern trends and leave me wondering if political correctness should ever supercede grammar.

Early in the book, Walsh discusses capitalization. He argues that we are misguided about what we should and should not capitalize, even though the fundamental rules are taught to us in second grade -- proper nouns are capitalized; common nouns are not. One particular reason he believes we have problems determining capitalization is because advertising and marketing have taken precedence over grammar, and we often fail to see the difference between a company's name and its logo. The Visa logo may be written as VISA and the Adidas logo may be written as adidas, but that doesn't mean that writers should mimic the stylized logos when referencing them in print.

Walsh also uses the example of people's names like e.e. cummings and k.d. lang, which should be written as E.E. Cummings and K.D. Lang. This rule immediately made me think of Bell "bell hooks" Hooks -- an African-American woman, feminist, social activist and scholar who chooses not to capitalize her name -- as I remembered recently reading a review of Feminism is for Everybody: Passionate Politics in an acquaintance's LiveJournal. While reading the piece, I remember pausing when the reviewer would cite or mention Hooks as "hooks." The lowercase struck me as awkward -- especially when a sentence would begin with the author's name. It made me question what the correct way to address Hooks would be. After all, she chose to write her name as "bell hooks"; shouldn't her preference be respected? On page 25, Walsh answers my question: "Lowercased proper nouns can leave readers confused as well as jarred: Publications that indulge writer Bell Hooks's preference for the lowercase had better be ready to explain what bell hooks are."

I brought this information to the attention of my fellow blogger, because (a) it excited me that I had recently been pondering what to do in this exact situation and (b) she might be a sucker for grammar like I am and wish to correct her review accordingly. Turns out that she does not agree: "Many people criticize bell hooks in particular for the lowercase use, which I believe she uses to demonstrate that her works are more important than she is. In this situation, my social awareness trumps any love for the English language. It's just too bad more people don't believe a similar train of thought as her."

I did a little research, and Hooks does indeed lowercase her name for the above reason. According to a biography found here, Hooks, born Gloria Watkins, chose the pseudonym "both to honor her grandmother … but also because the name Gloria became associated with an identity that was not completely hers." In addition to the pseudonym, Hooks chooses to "decapitalize" -- not a word -- her name "to take the reader's focus away from the author and place it on the content of the work."

Oh, dear. Now I'm not just competing against improper grammar but social activism as well. But the truth is that I don't see how not capitalizing her name is going to make people take Hooks more seriously, let alone enhance the overall meaning behind her work. If I picked up a book in Barnes and Noble and the author's name was entirely lowercase, my first thought would not be "I bet the content of this book is really meaningful." In fact, my attention would most likely be drawn to the unconventional style the author chooses for her name. Perhaps if Hooks only wanted her message to be the focus, she would not even include her name on the cover.

Wouldn't it also make more sense that the more important Hooks feels her writing is, the more she would want her name associated with the text? People remember important ideas or stories both because of the message and because of who wrote them. They may not remember the author's name, but it certainly is not on purpose. And rarely do you hear someone say they read the most insightful philosophy by Anonymous. I realize that Hooks is making a statement against the importance our culture puts on labels, but at the same time what's wrong with considering herself important? Her thoughts are profound, and she spent the time creating a pseudonym to specifically voice those views as Bell Hooks. Let people celebrate both them and her.

Hooks's rationale for not capitalizing her name makes sense, but not in the way described above. In actuality, "bell hooks" serves as more of a logo than as a statement. Watkins chooses to market herself as an author and activist using the pseudonym, and it is her choice to stylize it in any way she chooses on her title pages and by-lines. She could likewise write and rationalize it as BELL HOOKS, BeLL HooKS or bell 'look at my words, not at my name' hooks -- Walsh asks where one draws the line and uses the example of an average man on the street who insists on being quoted as "john smith" -- but that does not mean that replicating her way in an article, biography or review is correct.

Here's why: your article sucks.

I'm finally starting to realize what I want to be when I grow up. At least I have a more justifiable answer for what I hope to accomplish with my journalism degree when I'm bombarded with questions at extended family get-togethers or in professional situations, anyway. My standard response, "I want to write for a magazine or newspaper," seems to be too generic these days. (I used to say, "I want to be a theatre critic," because that was/is my dream job. Becoming an experienced critic takes time and practice (and perhaps more importantly, a lucky break), so while I still believe in striving to achieve my goal, I have to be realistic and start small.)

When it comes to writing, I love to revise and edit. I have always been an intensely critical individual -- very detail-oriented and a perfectionist. Sometimes I can't write a blog entry in under two hours simply because I'm tinkering with grammar and style. I suppose this is why I feel that I would make a great theatre critic--extremely visual + obnoxiously picky = success. I notice everything -- people's new hairstyles, clothing, attitudes, misuses of commas, incorrect uses of "that" and "which," and their poor sentence structure. It all irritates me. I have been thinking about my attraction to correcting writing often as of late. It fascinates me how much pleasure I get from revising my cover letters, resumes and online entries. Similarly, I rarely pass up an opportunity to proofread another person's work -- usually much to their displeasure, as I can be quite critical both copy- and content-wise. While speaking to my uncle's fiance, who is a journalist herself, this past weekend, we came to the mutual conclusion that I should focus myself on becoming a copyeditor. After all, I have "the personality of a copy editor," she said. "Anal and bitchy."

This discovery excites me about journalism for the first time in years. It also intimidates me a bit, because I am not trained specifically in copy editing. Yes, I have taken an editing course, and I excelled in the Traditional Grammar course that I took for "fun" during my final semester, but as far as an actual copy-editing course, I'm lacking. Much of what a copy editor does is common sense, though, as long as you have a firm understanding of the English language. Sadly not enough people have that these days; I've read articles in local (and national) newspapers that make me cringe. Fortunately I possess the basic skills, and I know that not every copy editor knows every rule and that not every rule is necessarily correct or used at a certain publication. Do they use AP style or Chicago style? Do they, like the Washington Post or The New York Times, have their own stylebooks? The trick is to familiarize myself with the language, the fundamental rules and the knowledge that a wide variety of references exist designed specifically for copy editors.

I recently joined a fantastic journalism and media Web site -- Mediabistro.com. While the site offers news and information for journalists nationwide, it is also very New York-centric, a trait I value as my search for a job in the city continues. I enjoy Mediabistro.com because it not only offers jobs and articles, but also opportunities to attend seminars and enroll in classes (both on-line and on-site) as well. Yesterday I found what sounded like an incredible copy-editing course online beginning next Thursday. Unfortunately the class is $425 and closed. Disappointed in the missed opportunity, I am excited that my two new grammar/copy-editing books arrived the same day -- Strunk and White's The Elements of Style (How I admire E.B. White.) and Bill Walsh's Lapsing Into a Comma: A Curmudgeon's Guide to the Many Things That Can Go Wrong in Print--and How to Avoid Them. I'll most likely read these books cover to cover, as they interest me more than the latest best seller.

Entry has now been edited eight times.

Electric City: Brooklyn, AZ

On Sunday, The American Theatre Wing celebrated the 60th Annual Tony Awards at Radio City Music Hall in New York City, and, like the theatre junkie that I am, I tuned in at 8 p.m. sharp.

Usually throughout the show, I experience various emotional peaks and valleys. Excitement, joy, envy, reflection, sadness and boredom -- I get them all. I won't lie and say that I don't cry either, because I do. Those full cast numbers with everybody singing different parts get me every time.
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I meet Brooklyn during "Theatre in New York" -- a 2003 summer class at New York University. She sits beside me in the second row, and we quickly develop rapport as we discuss our first days in the city. While I watched the chess players, she met Jimmy Fallon, whom she then blew him off when her cell phone rang. While I ate Tai food, she went to Coyote Ugly.

Brooklyn, ironically, is from Arizona. She is bubbly and fashionable and the flirtiest girl that I have ever met. Think Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blonde, but make her a brunette. Minus the fashion, she has two strikes against her, but she wins me over when she compliments my make-up.

The thing I like about Brooklyn is her appreciation of New York. She comes to class two minutes before the tardy bell, beaming and carrying a variety of shopping bags, and I usually find myself summarizing the second half of the reading assignment for her. It's fine, though, because she helps me with my books and the elevator. Brooklyn loves the city almost as much as me, and during her six weeks here she is going to experience as much as she can.

One Friday, Brooklyn and I decide it would be fun to go to the 57th Annual Tony Awards. We know we won't get in, but we certainly could stand outside Radio City Music Hall and watch Broadway's finest walk the red carpet.

I'm not really a fan of award shows. In fact, most years I can barely force myself to sit through the Academy Awards' opening monologue -- unless, of course, the underappreciated Jon Stewart or the adorable Billy Crystal mesmerizes me. The Tony's, though, it's my show. Forget Julia Roberts, where's Joanna Gleason?

Watching the Tony's sweeps me into a kind of two-hour fantasy. Since I was a little girl I have dreamt of being a dancer -- a chorus girl in a Broadway show. I love to watch the clips from plays and musicals performed, and when I was younger, I'd tape the Awards and memorize every live performance.

We plan to meet Sunday at 6 p.m. outside Radio City. No problem, I think. I'll go shopping for a few hours on Fifth Avenue then mosey a block over and save us a spot. Wrong. In my excitement I forget to check my calendar, and when I exit the m6 bus at 59th Street, I find myself in the middle of the Puerto Rican Day Parade's aftermath.

For a 4'6" woman who sits at ass-level, hundreds of thousands of people of any nationality in a 10-block radius is horrifying, but imagine five boroughs worth of proud Latinos celebrating in the streets. I attempt to walk east on 57th Street, but I am swimming against the heavy current. I turn around and flow wherever the sea of red, blue and white takes me.

After nearly a half hour of being stumbled over or nearly crammed off the curb, I seek refuge in French Connection. Driving around the store for nearly an hour, much to the agitation of the staff, I emerge purchase-less onto the now less crowded sidewalk and make my way to Radio City.

Partitions have been set up to corral the tourists and theatre enthusiasts -- I consider myself more the latter, but looking back I'm not so sure -- so I ease into a area of seven or eight women. I have just gotten settled when an officer notices me. He ushers me to an empty gate specifically for the press. Thankful for his help, I tell him I am waiting for a friend and proceed to watch the stars from my private pen.

Brooklyn arrives soon after and alongside b-list reporters we photograph the red carpet. Although we can only see the actors' heads and profiles, we still snap picture after picture on our disposable cameras. It doesn't matter that, in the developed film, nobody but us will be able to distinguish the back of John Lithgow's head from behind a spotlight; we were there.

As the last guests arrive and the carpet clears, we walk along 51st Street toward Fifth Avenue. We immediately stop when a black limousine parks and Barbara Walters steps out. She looks good for her age, yet still older than I expected. I say nothing, fumbling to reach my camera and muttering obscenities as Brooklyn is already off the curb and shaking Barbara's hand. She, Barbara not Brooklyn, poses for a picture and continues to walk toward Radio City.

A member of the NYPD chats with Brooklyn as I put my camera away. This ought to be interesting, I think, and wander over to meet my friend. It is here that I witness the power of a hot girl. She giggles and smiles, her perfect teeth gleaming from her tan face. The officer is clearly infatuated, and when Brooklyn asks if she can wear his helmet and sit on his motorcycle, he is all too eager to oblige. I laugh when she straddles the bike in her skirt, as I am certain somebody's helmet got a bit tighter.

Unfortunately, my real-life episode of Sex and the City ends prematurely when Officer Horndog needs to escort "someone famous" to Times Square. But not before he offers Brooklyn his number. To my surprise, however, she refuses. "I don't call boys. You can call me," she coos, scribbling her number on a receipt. I marvel at this concept, because while the gesture seems old-fashioned, Brooklyn has effortlessly gained complete control.

I think about this as we walk down Fifth. I have time to think, as Brooklyn occupies herself on her cell phone. Since meeting her, I have learned that no matter who you are, you will always be the third-wheel when with Brooklyn. Her cell phone never stops ringing, and she never stops talking, and you never can say more than a few sentences about the sex appeal of New York's Finest before the next call.

She hangs up as we approach a small Mexican restaurant near Times Square. We have just decided on a meal when her phone rings -- again; it's Officer Horndog asking where we (read: she) are. Within minutes, he and his buddy arrive. I have had enough of being a wallflower by this time, so I fake interest in the restaurant's grande selection of three enchiladas.

I can only stare blankly through the glass window at the laminated menu for so long, though, and thank God when two businessmen approach. I recognize them from a few blocks ago; they had stopped us earlier, asking if we knew of a good sushi place. We talk about how funny it is to run into the same people in such a large city and how they had been Tony red carpet watching themselves. I know that I am flirting with the out-of-towners; they are handsome. At least I wasn't straddling the one's briefcase.

The Brooklyn-PD leaves as my businessmen continue their sushi quest. As the sound of the motorcycles fade, we hear singing. At first only a voice can be heard, but as we near Times Square, a piano also becomes audible. Turning onto Broadway, I see Billy Joel on a stage elevated above a crowd of spectators. Must be the "someone famous," I think.

We watch and listen for a while, but decide it's been a long day and wait for a bus to downtown. While waiting, I silently absorb the city as Brooklyn chatters away on her phone. She does stop for a minute, however, so we can take a picture with a group of FDNY firefighters.

We never did get to eat our enchiladas and need food badly by the time we return to the East Village. In a local McDonald's we order two cheeseburgers and sit down in a small side area. Brooklyn asks if I need any help, and I'm curious as to why her approach seems so casual and non-patronizing. Without asking, she offers the answer, "My brother's a quad." Sitting there under the flourescent lights and the yellow and red tiled walls, we have our first and only real conversation.

Once home, I rewind the tape I had set to record the Tony's. The opening shot is Billy Joel performing live from Times Square.