Late today I had the great pleasure of participating in a very creative brainstorm about how to adapt Simi Linton’s memoir to the stage. We’re still waiting to hear about the success or otherwise of our various grant applications – and I’ve got more to write tomorrow to meet a few 1 March deadlines – but for a few hours this evening we were all blue sky and dreams, rather than practicalities and tin-tacks.

In attendance, apart from Simi, Simi’s husband (a media studies professor) and myself, were a documentary film-maker, a painter, a theatre critic and arts writer, a playwright, and the curator of a disability film series that’s currently playing downtown once a month. As I looked around at this group of interesting thinkers, I did feel quite privileged to be part of this creative moment, and that this is certainly the best aspect of being in this city. Which is not to say, of course, that thrilling conversations and brainstorms don’t take place elsewhere; but in the diversity of the participants’ backgrounds, the supportive environment in which such discussions are nurtured, and (last but certainly not least) the real possibility of other sources of funding, it was a very New York moment for me.

While waiting for a match (see post below), I decided to treat myself to a night at the theatre. The work of writer and actor Spalding Gray, best known for his dramatic monologues, has been woven into a show called Spalding Gray: Stories Left to Tell at the Minetta Lane Theatre in Greenwhich Village.

I bought a discount ticket through one of the electronic newsletter services, and stopped by at Otto Restaurant where my friend John was tending bar – with just enough time to down a couple of side dishes of vegetables with a glass of red, at mates’ rates before scooting a few blocks further south to the theatre.

A discount ticket often translates to a shoddy seat right up at the front and on the side, but on this occasion it was such a pleasure to watch seasoned theatre performers delight in the world created by Gray’s words that I didn’t mind. It’s a bit sad going by myself, though.

Here is a great resource on the man’s life and work from National Public Radio, the nearest thing to the ABC in the USA.

As you know, I’ve been suffering from cabin-fever during these last gasps of winter (still below freezing daily, except for one glorious sunny day on Wednesday this week when it was a warm 5 degrees Celcius and everyone skipped about like it was Spring). My head is totally inside The Young Widow’s Book … and it’s difficult to dwell there for extended periods of time, which of course is imperative if I want it to be any good.

I decided I needed to get out and see some live music, go back to the theatre and so forth, and needed to find some company. I’m only here until late August, so I want to finish my book and have some fun in the city. But in this metropolis of eight million people, I have found it very difficult to meet anyone. So I joined match.com for a trial period to see if I could meet a few music-lovers and museum-goers.

I have been a member for just over 48 hours. In that time I have received several “winks” (automated expressions of interest attaching the admirer’s profile), I have winked at a few guys myself, and have even received a few emails (through the anonymous email system – so no name or identification is exchanged unless either party chooses to pursue it).

Of course, like in any group of people, there are going to be a few freaks. Here is part of my favourite freak response thus far – from a sender based somewhere in the UK:

“MY ANGEL FRIEND
i dont really know how to start off but…you have a beautiful profile that attracted my heart. your beauty and smile captured my imagination and my heart started falling for you ,thats because Your smile has a beauty that I find in no other profile.. Your eyes hold a sexiness and a passion others can only long for. As long as my heart beats, I shall seek out your soul and be fulfilled!!!! in your beauty. definately i know that u will be a very special person in my life…just seeing ur lovely profile for the first time today…perhaps start been friends today might be the best thing of our lifes !!!!just know and understand my heart longs for you and Giving away a heart can hurt … . But, receiving one is the greatest gift.i cant wait to talk you…”

Oh dear. I just want someone I can hang out at jazz clubs with.

I snapped this photo en route to tennis this week. I realised that I could use an escape ladder right about now, myself. According to a local who knows these things, I’m experiencing “The Febs” – the depressive symptoms associated with the tail end of winter.

That said, we enjoyed a relatively balmy day today, reaching a maximum temperature of almost 7 degrees Celcius. It was the first day above freezing in weeks, and I felt it.

I have been in self-induced hibernation trying to finish a draft of my book. It’s hard work and quite difficult emotionally as well, going in detail over ground that has been tilled enough for one lifetime. But the book is coming together and I want to have a draft to tinker with by the time the weather warms up for real.

So I’ve decided tonight to treat myself to real US-style indulgence – eating pizza and watching TV. And not just any TV, mind you – the new series of American Idol. I have to admit, like all bad habits, it’s addictive.

Hubble, bubble, toil and trouble … Here is the Prospect Park Tennis Center, which from November through to the end of April each year is shrouded in an enormous air-conditioned bubble to ensure that we mortals don’t freeze our tennis balls off when trying to play the game.

Our group of four – three ex-pat Australians and one ex-pat Brit – play every Monday. In order to reach the tennis courts I walk for thirty minutes at my usual pace (I have been nicknamed “The Greyhound” for my walking speed), as they lie on the diagonally opposite corner of the park from where I live. It’s a great warm-up, especially in the below-freezing conditions that have been part and parcel of life here since I returned from Sydney in early January.

Meet Randy, concierge at my workplace on 86th and Riverside Drive. He has worked in the same job for more than twenty years. Despite his youthful appearance, I have learned he will celebrate his 50th birthday later this year. In his spare time he coaches his son’s basketball team and flirts with Australians.

It’s Valentines Day in one cold city. Ice storms and freezing rain have driven everyone indoors. On the subway, people are so rugged up it’s not worth the effort to disrobe during the commute home.

I saw a woman and a man, sitting opposite each other in the same carriage as me, writing  Valentines’ Day cards to their respective Significant Other. At one point they looked up, saw what the other was doing, and exchanged a laugh – one of those New York moments in which total strangers share a deep connection for about five seconds.

The best indoors sight of the day was that of a man who took out a cordless shaver from his pocket and proceeded to shave his face with the assistance of a handheld mirror. He accomplished this while standing upright, glued to one of the poles that we all rely on at least a few times a week to keep us standing while the carriage hurtles onward. His yarmulke also managed to remain firmly in place during this performance, which could only have been for the benefit of a Valentine closer to another subway stop.

Stop Press – today was the very first time in my life I had ever gone to work during a snowfall. As a longtime resident of Sydney, this constitutes pure novelty. Apparently the snow storms in the  midwest and north-east of the USA have even made the Australian news. While I’m like a kid in a toyshop, for everyone else here, it’s pure hell. As far as they’re concerned, the novelty has long worn off, whereas I’m running around in the snow (well, stepping carefully, to be precise) taking photographs.

Above left: the 9am view of my apartment building as I set off towards the subway; above centre – me outside Simi Linton’s home/office, rugged up complete with waterproof fur-lined boots, 1920s-style hat and goose-down coat. (And they’re only the layers you can see). Above right – close-up of brand new floral-embroidered brown suede gloves, courtesy of Susan, a friend from PlayGroup, as a belated birthday present. Thank you Susan.

Apparently it’s snowing, finally, outside. I can’t tell for sure because it’s 10 o’clock at night and I have no view of the outside world from my apartment – just a deep vertical tunnel separating my building from the one next door, ending in a lonely stretch of concrete below. If it hasn’t all turned to sleet and mush by the morning, I might catch a glimpse of one of the world’s most urbanised landscapes covered in a three-inch layer of fresh snow.

Above are photos of ice floes I took today from Simi’s Upper West Side home office. The ice travels at a leisurely pace along the Hudson River, a temporary channel of ice beside the lanes of the West Side Highway and the winter trees missing their leaves.

Last night I weaned myself off the laptop computer and headed out. For once, I was actually socialising in my own borough of Brooklyn, and even better, could catch the subway to get to my destination.

One of my tennis-playing pals, Steven Paul, runs MadArts, an exhibition space for a collective of 30 artists all trying to earn a quid (I can use that term because Steve is originally from the UK) from their painting or their photography or their sculpture or their work that doesn’t fit into any of those aforementioned categories. The collective was having a launch party to celebrate the opening of their spring show – an ambitious description for the exhibition, given the weather has been well below freezing for the past seven days.

Australian wine was available, and there was some interesting work on display, and I knew two people there, who knew other people there … but after a bit of conversational patter and two circuits of the exhibits I felt I had exhausted my options.

Coming home, I was surprised by how crowded the train was. One can feel lonely in a crowd anywhere, but I never feel lonely on the New York City subway.

Groaners – I think this is an Americanism – refer to the most overused cliches and hackneyed phrases found in news writing. Here’s the link to newswriting.com’s page chock-a-block full of examples. I found it very funny.

What I sight I beheld in the Chinese take-away on the corner last night. Waiting for my order of the House Special soup for an economical $4.50, a black man who was rather large around the middle entered the store. He carried a plastic container of milk and a small box of sugar. After ordering a serving of fried chicken, he popped off the plastic top of the milk carton and took a slug.

But that wasn’t enough. Next he pushed open the cardbox box of sugar and proceeded to pour its entire contents directly into the milk container. He replaced the plastic top and shook the carton for all it was worth, distributing the sugar throughout. And yes, he drank the lot.

I can’t believe the sugar industry needs any subsidies at all after the support it receives through the eating habits of many in this country.

On Monday night, when the temperature was a long way below zero (Celcius), I braved the multiple layers of clothing and the literally freezing streets to make my way to Yeshiva University on Lexington Avenue at East 34th Street.

My friend Madeleine Beckman had asked me to present to some of her undergraduate students who are studying editing and publishing. At the moment they’re investigating the book publishing industry (moving on to magazines and other forms of publishing later in the semester), which is why she asked me to come along.

The students, split into four groups, had devised book proposals that they each presented to me in turn. My job was to respond to their proposals – to probe, to encourage, to make suggestions – and to give them a guide to the process of turning a manuscript into a printed book.

I was impressed with the students’ ability to devise ideas for books that filled a niche in the market. and relieved to be able to come up with suggestions and relevant questions in response to each group. Each proposal definitely had the potential to end up as a publishable book – all I need now are some final manuscripts, rather than good ideas, to sell to acquiring editors …

One regular reader asked me to clarify how copha was procured in New York in order to make chocolate crackles for my Australia Day birthday party.

I confess that it was my friend Kate who successfully ordered the contraband online at Simply Australian. Go to the site and you’ll be mightily relieved, as I was, to learn that “Arnotts biscuits arrived” and “Next Vegemite shipment due second week February!!”. Don’t forget to check out the sale items. You can get everything in America, it seems, including stale bikkies.

The best part was unwrapping the familiar waxed paper covering and reading the nutritional information printed on its side. Next to the word “fat” were the words “100%”. No mucking around – if you’re going go the way of all fat, then this is the product for you: copha really is ALL fat.

The chocolate crackles tasted fantastic, of course, and there were very few left over from the 48 we had chilled on Kate and Phillip’s deck in the below-zero temperatures. Go Copha!

This YouTube video of The Chaser’s Julian Morrow asking the simplest questions of residents of America’s heartland (and posing as Honest John for part of it) has been doing the rounds of the ex-pat community following its original broadcast on ABC-TV.

The level of many Americans’ ignorance of the world outside the USA demonstrated in this video is, as always, horrifying to those of us who have the least scrap of awareness about world politics. We are all aware of the paradox of America’s role in our world – too much economic and militaristic influence, a total lack of interest in the mistakes of history, and dismissive of an internationalist approach to preventing conflict; combined with a profound lack of curiosity about the outside world in which it seeks to interfere.

The Chaser team selected its American targets very carefully, of course, and outside the major metropolitan centres there are infinite numbers of easy ones. In New York City, for example, Morrow would never have gotten away with posing as the Prime Minister, and I’m convinced the locals here would have been able to answer most, if not all, of his questions. I have seen the late-night talk shows here (Jay Leno on the west coast, David Letterman and Conan O’Brien on the east coast) show similar videos ridiculing the ignorance of their own countrymen and women.

For all these reasons, I continue to insist that living in New York City is NOT the same as living in America. It’s splitting hairs, I know, but it helps.

As referred to in a recent post, I have had my first success as a grant writer on behalf of my client Simi Linton. We are still yet to hear precisely how many dollars will come tumbling her way, but it’s sure to be a long way from sufficient to putting her memoir on the stage.

I realised I had not included a full description of the project which has attracted this first dribble of grant money, so here is the description of My Body Politic: An Illustrated History. We must wait until March/April to hear of any other successful applications, so fingers crossed. Between now and then I’ll be scaling back my hours with Simi and concentrating on finishing the draft of my book.

This week I’ve just endured three whole days of mass-emailing hell, creating, testing and sending out a press release announcing Simi’s website launch to an extensive list of contacts. In trying moments such as these have been, I entertain myself with echoes from Macbeth: “If it were done when ’t is done, then ’t were well / It were done quickly.” No actual assassinations, I’m pleased to report, although I did want to kill the Internet Service Provider for most of Tuesday and Wednesday.