It was a Tuesday in September, early in the month, when I was in Brooklyn volunteering for IFP Week (Independent Filmmaker Project). I was staying over my pal Koji’s place in Prospect Park, taking the B or Q early in the morning to Jay Street and transferring to the A or C to High Street, where I’d hop off in DUMBO, the luxury warehouse district of Brooklyn, NY. IFP’s main campus was located here, in these multiple buildings whose connecting streets courted many of their volunteers and members who famously wore lanyards. It was oddly quiet, between these buildings; In general, at this part of Brooklyn, sound didn’t travel very far.
That morning, on the seventh or eighth, I arrived near 30 John Street, but early and with time to spare. I walked to the Brooklyn Roasting Company to grab an early morning cup of joe I so dearly missed and decided to check my schedule before checking in. I sat on the right side of the ‘U’ shaped configuration of large cushioned couches figuring I’d accomplish three things by sitting near the armrest furthest from the conjoining couch: First, I’d be able to see outside, through the walls made of glass, the sun, the road and people and dogs. Second, it allowed me to resist the innocent lookup and eye lock of mine with any stranger standing in line, or anywhere else behind me where most people were. Third, if something terrible were to happen, or I were to lose track of time, I didn’t have to issue the excuse mes or pardons or coming throughs to get up and leave. I was sitting somewhere equivalent to the aisle seat in an airplane, my legs are long and even if I can stilt them at a 97 degree angle as opposed to an inward 70 or 80 degree angle, I’ll sure as hell take all 97 degrees.
The coffee was too hot, the people too loud, the wifi too slow. I had been lost in the NYC way of life, of living, and the usual constant reminder of mindfulness, the broken record, the hourly, sometimes minutely reminder to be mindful and aware, had slipped until now. I took my deep breaths and even closed my eyes in the public space, breathing in, and out, and iinn, and ooouuuttt, and so on, and so forth, and soo oonn, and ssoo ffoorrtthh.
With this newfound sense of being, thanks to David Lynch’s Transcendental Meditation (affiliate link), and months of working with the Headspace App, yes the annual $60 is worth it (affiliate link), I decided to hang outside for the remainder of my morning.
Brooklyn’s waterside was shimmering and I felt like the single benefactor of its beauty. It’s funny, in a city like New York, how you can be lost among a crowd, the crowd, yet feel special about it. As if the way to feel special about something so big, is to realize you’re something so small. Sorry, but that’s awe, folks. I threw down my backpack and laid on the grass listening to whatever I could. I heard the water lapping against the rocks, a natural rhythm provided by the water and moon. I thought about the earth, covered only in water, the moon pulling said water, wherever it’s headed, the same places, around and around, a cosmic loop, two friends teasing, the moon and water.
I woke up, now disappointed, distraught, downcast, whatever you name it. I thought about showing up, claiming I misread the schedule, apologizing for my stupidity and hearing in return “Oh no, that’s fine! You’re volunteering, not working for us.” I also thought about running from DUMBO, to another part of NYC where I’d consume rather than give. My mind started to recontextualize a new set of ideas regarding the trip, I’d use this time to visit old friends instead of networking new friends. I’d enjoy myself, the life and relationships I already have. There’s an instinct to believe I would be an individual making a decision opposite what people expect from me, to not show up. To some, being an individual is a coverup for being a scumbag, i.e.—not caring what people think is an all too easy excuse when falling short of standards, it’s a contagious thought (R0>1) and it does spread/enable mediocrity to be enshrined if you don’t do your part—Here, it would be just that, a coverup.
It’s funny now, looking back, that shameful slumber is a minor victory in my life. How happy I am thinking about it, sleeping publicly in America’s largest city, just because. It was beautiful out! I arrived at 30 John Street and found my supervisor, Ashlyn, beside a puddle of pollen out front. I apologized, joked about kissing her feet for forgiveness (she initiated), and got to work. I was tasked to help with a Skype call, in case things went awry, with Cannes Festival’s President, Pierre Lescure. Luckily, things going awry had already found its place in my day and passed on somewhere else.
The meetings came and went after Skype, to a “You Can Do It” speaker from a woman who has, in fact, done it, to a male with a lifetime of privilege who instead said “this is how it’s done.” There was a good balance of hard and soft information, a hodgepodge of TED Talk styled panels followed by Q and A’s. All in all, it was good just to see what was offered. Most of it seemed like the information you’d find on YouTube, looking for some secret about dream chasing. I hope most people realize the secret lays in the act more than the anything else. Sure, I learned some interesting things, but the only way IFP Week furthered my career was that I grew more and more enraged the more and more I saw the same people coming back to the same classroom for the same stuff. By the fourth day, I wanted to shake each one of them down and tell them to make a movie already, time’s a tickin’ and others are kickin’.
I was starved, it was happy hour, Ashlyn had some emails to send out and schedules to complete, but she felt the same. We walked to a local pub, 68 Jay Street Bar, and indulged. Ashlyn was amusing to me, proving to be positive even when saying negative things. There was something so hopeful about her face, it always had a big globe of light reflecting from her pupils, I don’t know how. Her face was pale, somewhat wide with light freckles dispersed throughout, it contained shiny white teeth, a shade of lip that worked and curly brown hair that you could assume, I found out correctly, her mother also had. She wasn’t the most attractive girl on the planet, but you felt good around her which is important. We drank our $2 Yuenglings and talked about mundane, kind of exciting, but mostly regular things, cities and travel and all that. Eventually, I started listening to the groups of people around me. The guy component of a couple sitting next to us happened to be very passionate about Woody Allen, as if he wanted everyone to know that he knew something, he boomed his voice and talked about Stardust Memories.
Now me, knowing some of Woody Allen, but not all of Woody Allen, waited for a more inviting part of the conversation to pop up. I planned on asserting myself as a man with interesting interests at the bar, casually standing up and all that. That’s when she asked me “Have you seen Stardust Memories?” and that instinct to run from DUMBO came back. The problem was, I did not live in New York and had not seen Stardust Memories, but I was there for IFP Week and had already started to be seen as the niche movie buff and this made me an imposter. The other thing, which I worried less about, was the fact that a guy was boisterously speaking of Woody Allen, which according to Twitter is a career killer. The last thing I noticed, but didn’t worry about, was the tickle in my throat, the tease of a sneeze. "I actually haven’t seen Stardust Memories, but one of the coolest people I’ve ever worked with recommended it to me as a good, not great, but worth the watch type of movie. Do you like it?” I owned up and felt like a person doing so. I looked over at the boisterous man and the girl wearing a black rancher hat with a feather of the same color and noticed they probably were on a first or second date. He was the confident guy who probably lived in DUMBO and sloppily threw out every interesting name he could think of in the faces of the people he went out with, copying things from somewhere he heard. She was just as boring buying it, even asking for more of it. I bet she also lived in DUMBO. They were perfect for each other and I hated them both.
“Oh, cool. Do you want to go somewhere else after this beer?” I said after whatever she said. “I’d love to, but I have to get things ready for tomorrow. I’d have another beer here, though,” she told me. I could not have another beer here and would not, but it took me a second to find the words to put nicely. “Let’s save that beer for later in the week! I’m starting to feel tired and wouldn’t want to give you anything less than all of me, in conversation.” She got me with the next one, “I don’t mind it, I’m having fun!” to which I responded, “I do mind. Sorry.” I already felt we would not get drinks later in the week; So, we paid for our drinks separately and parted ways.
It was getting colder out and with my backpack slung over only one of my shoulders, I put my hands in my pockets and looked at my feet. I followed the blurs of them moving and thought of Charlie Brown music. I self sabotaged. I find certain types of people despicable. How am I ever going to survive in this world? It’s full of all kinds of people. The Charlie Brown music played louder and louder until it was right in front of me and bumped into me.
Michael Cera, his backpack on the shoulder opposite of mine, mimicked exactly what I was doing, coming from another place for another reason. “Sorry,” he beat me to saying. “Same. Didn’t see you there,” I said back. It hit me I should’ve at least heard him, it was his Charlie Brown music. I continued “I thought the Charlie Brown music was in my head, that’s why I didn’t notice you.” He politely responded “Crappy day too?” And, even though the mean average of my day was pleasant, those dweebs at the bar getting along ruined it. I agreed “Yes. People suck,” and we stood there. He noticed the lanyard I was wearing and his eyes lit up, “Are you volunteering?” to which I said “Yea.” He was inquisitive and seemed to actually care about people. “Which building are you volunteering in?” I noticed he was also wearing a lanyard and I opened my mouth “IFP’s main building, Thirty John Street,” which was cut short due to nature’s final secretion before winter, the late fall push of pollen. “IFP’s main building, Thirty Joh—Joh—Ahhhhh—” and I reared my head back and my eyes closed and the violence of a sneeze started, but a hand covered my mouth. The “Chooo!” part was more like a “Chuh!” and the apology was all mine, but I was confused whether to apologize or thank him. It was awkward for us both. “Sorry, thank you,” and we both looked down. In this part of Brooklyn, sound didn’t travel very far and I heard nothing for some time. To interrupt the silence Mike spoke angrily “You know what, I always do this. I always try doing something nice and ruin it. I was walking around Brooklyn thinking some people would think it’s funny to see me walking and hear Vince Guaraldi playing just like in Arrested Development, but not one person laughed. And I ran into someone. AND damnit. I’m not George Michael, why do people think I AM that character? I’m Michael Cera, I can listen to Vince Guaraldi too!” He stared at his one foot standing in front of the other, “Darn it, Darn it, Darn it!” and my instinct to run away kicked in again, to leave DUMBO and arrive somewhere else in NYC, or outside NYC. Maybe I didn’t belong here.
I disappointed Ashlyn earlier and therefore disappointed myself, I thought. I also thought, if George Michael were aware of Vince Guaraldi’s music in his life, he’d also walk around playing the music, in hopes of someone, anyone laughing. “No one has done anything as nice as that to me,” I assured him. “You think so? I mean I’ve done nicer. I put my hand over someone’s fart the other day and she seemed to appreciate it.” I said nothing. “I’ve washed my hands since, don’t worry about that. She was attractive anyhow.” As the camera shakily zoomed in, he nervously said “I’m joking. God, you really thought that happened?! No. No way.” I laughed. After all, what’re you supposed to do when these crazy things actually happen in your real life, stay serious? “Let’s get a drink and wash off your hands, pal. The Vince Guaraldi music is pretty funny.”
“You really think so?” I actually did, not in the sort of laugh out loud way, but it sounded like something I’d find funny writing about. “Yes” I told him. It was the start of a friendship, something hard for me to find in DUMBO. We walked to Olympia Wine Bar and talked about a lot: Abbas Kiarostami’s Where is the Friend’s House, working with Sharon Van Etten, Marlon Brando, learning Spanish, Wally Brando, Murakami, Lynch, some of my projects, being a celebrity and I even sneezed again, and he covered my mouth again.
Why it was funny this time and not last, I cannot say; But, we did laugh this time. I heard one concept of humor as being tragedy plus time. While time usually brings levity to a situation, it doesn’t explain slapstick, impressions, tickling or other things people laugh at or because of. There have been other attempts to explain it: incongruity, release, resemblance…etc. And, while they all explain a framework for why certain jokes can be logically deemed as ‘possibly funny’, it’s hard to think of a universal code (Don’t forget to fit Apes, Rats and other animals who laugh within the context of the code).
To think of the act of laughing, how oxygen is seized from your lungs and given to the world, how faces alter and heads nod and hands fly. Some laugh hard, others soft. The surrendering of motor skills, giving whatever grasp you have on yourself to ‘other’ or ‘else’. The freedom and pleasure to not be free, to lose control. I like to think laughter does play a role in life, but the role humor plays in laughter?
I’m beginning to think it doesn’t matter. I had a fun night with Michael Cera and even though there’s a thought running counter, on my spine, telling me something ‘else’ is happening, I kept my eyes on what’s immediate, the space that’s shared, the things and people in it.
I woke up Wednesday morning with my head aching and it's longtime friend, a frown, accompanying it. I was looking forward to coffee and water, knowing eventually the headache would pass and in a second, or minute, or hour—at some point, would come back. I concentrated on the space between.
LB
Michael Cera if you read this, email me.