MIND THE GAP; DON’T RUN AT THE TRAIN

New York City breeds impatience and rush. For those of you who are impatient, I give you the meat of this post in one tidy phrase: “MIND THE GAP; DON’T RUN AT THE TRAIN”. There you have it, now you can click away to your next task.

But if you’re the kind who likes details, here’s the story. I took the local train into the office today because I could get a seat and read my new book. Because I’m a rather impatient person (no, Shannon, not you!) I flipped to the last chapter because I just *had* to know the ending first.

We pulled into 59th Street, and here came the people rushing up the stairs with their eyes on the prize: the 1 train! An older man dove toward the doors as they were closing, and FELL INTO THE GAP. His legs were BENEATH the train, in the tracks. His torso was inside the train on the floor. The doors crunched around him and I heard myself scream “Oh God!”

Those of you who are New Yorkers know we get a bad rap. But in a pinch I’d want a few New Yorkers on hand because while we’ll yell at you for cutting the line at Duane Reade, in a real pinch we’re quick to respond with kindness.

Another man put himself into the doors to pry them open screaming “Wait! Wait!”, two others started pulling the guy up. I kept thinking about the news report a few years back where a man fell exactly like this, but the train started moving. They stopped the train quickly, rescuers came to the scene, but the ending is not good…the man remained alive and speaking, but when they removed the train he died.

Well, our train didn’t move. The other passengers got the old guy up, and he backed away, rattled, saying “I’ll take the next train.” I started to wonder where exactly he was going that he felt it necessary to dive at the train doors in the first place. Work? A meeting? Breakfast? An audition? A flight? A wedding? Birth of his first born grandchild? Sorry, none of those qualify. Then I consider what in my own life is important enough to risk death or dismemberment just so I can save 5 minutes and catch an earlier train…

Nothing. That’s what.

So slow down folks. This is a city that breeds impatience and rush…sometimes you have to really fight against it and force yourself to slow down. Now here’s that phrase again (just in case you impatiently skipped to the final chapter to see how it ends): “MIND THE GAP; DON’T RUN AT THE TRAIN”.

My Hero, John the Donut Pusher

John the Donut Pusher. Breakfast is sweet again!!

It’s been a while now since I’ve been away from Jimmy the Bacon Pusher, and let me assure you breakfast hasn’t been the same since. But now there’s a new breakfast hero on the block: John the Donut Pusher!

I should note for the record…I don’t eat donuts for breakfast, no sir! I might look longingly and salivate a little, but I usually end up with eggs of some sort…often hard-boiled or on special occasions (like Fridays) in the company of bread, cheese and hog.

John runs a coffee & donut cart on the corner of Park and 48th Street. He’s about 65, married, probably Greek, speaks with some sort of European accent, wears 2 cross necklaces all the time. Being a Wizard of Oz fanatic, he reminds me of Professor Marvel with his gray hair, in his donut wagon, with a crystal paper weight he uses to keep the dollar bills from flying out the window. Plus…he’s always giving me tidbits of wisdom (typically about my love life).

The very first time I went to his cart he looked at me and said, point blank, “You think too much. I can tell by the look on your face.” You might think that would annoy me…but it didn’t because it’s true. It’s just a clear statement of fact. I think too much, and my brow is typically furrowed even when I order a coffee.

John the Donut Pusher knows I’m not dating anyone because every Monday he questions me about what I did over the weekend. Then he tries to figure it out…”Why aren’t you dating anyone? You’re so beautiful. You have a great job. You have a beautiful smile. You’re hanging out in the wrong places. You think too much!”

Whatever excuse I offer, John is quick to dispel. So for the sake of avoiding his daily reprimands, I’d started to frequent the other donut guy on the east side of the street…I’ll never make that mistake again.

Yesterday, I took a break and went down to get a coffee from John. A big scary, smelly flower delivery man was at John’s cart. He leaned his shoulder against mine and said “What do you want, honey? Coffee? Cakes? Six donuts? I’ll buy you anything you want…what do you want? Get a muffin! Get some juice! I’m buying you breakfast!”

“No thanks,” I said to Scary Smelly, “I’m only having coffee, and I’ll buy my own.”

Scary Smelly continues, “Ok, then I know a chicken place down the street, I’m buying you lunch, what time can I pick you up? I’m buying you lunch!”

Now I’m annoyed, so I raise my left eyebrow, flair my nostrils and snap: “The hell you are! Besides I’m dating somebody and he won’t like it one bit.”

I knew John would catch me up in the fib, and I offered a silent prayer that he wouldn’t call me on it in front of Scary Smelly. John didn’t say a word.

Scary Smelly continues his campaign, “You dating someone, aw, I don’t care. I’m twice the man he is, baby, dump him and go out to lunch with me! How long will it take you to dump him? Here, do it right now, use my phone! I’m taking you to lunch!”

Then suddenly…from inside the cart, John the Donut Pusher comes to the rescue….

“HEY BUDDY! GET IN LINE! WHEN THIS GIRL’S AVAILABLE SHE’S MINE!”

And we all cracked up…even Scary Smelly. We stood there and chuckled, Scary took his flowers and split, I got my coffee and thanked John for thinking on his feet.

This morning I sat down at my desk, reached into the paper bag for my coffee, and there it was…………a free donut!!

You Can Call Me Shannon Brown (hey, I’ve been called worse… :)

Ok, I admit it. I stayed up past my bedtime last night for the sole purpose of getting the username “shannonbrown” on Facebook. I grabbed a box of dry TRIX cereal (because I forgot to get milk…), set my Blackberry to alarm at 11:58pm, and camped out on the sofa crunching down the minutes while staring at the Facebook countdown.

At 12:00am, my heart was pounding. I pushed the dachshunds away from my elbows and cracked my knuckles one last time, and WHAMMO! I got it!! Take that all you other Shannon Browns out there! You have plagued me long enough! As of today, I am NOT Shannon Andrea, Girl Shannon, Sharron, Shannon-Brown, or even Shannon2.0. I’m simply Shannon Brown.

My fixation with my name started when I was a kid. I grew up in the tiny coalmining town of Man, West Virginia. The population of the town of Man is less than the population of single city block that I live on in Manhattan. Yet, that tiny town contained two Shannon Brown…and there was a THIRD Shannon Brown in a neighboring town. And what’s worse, we were all in the SAME GRADE.

Shannon Dawn Brown was the tomboy. She liked to play sports, and she was passionate about it in the way a mother bear is passionate about protecting her cubs. If you get too close your head could get eaten. The teachers and kids called her “Shannon D.” and I was “Shannon A.” (which stands for Andrea) . If a ball even came near me in gym class, I passed it promptly to it to Shannon D. or I got out of her damn way altogether. Well, Shannon D. never got in *my* way when I was trying to play the piano…so I gladly yielded all basketballs to her.

When I got to college, I finally got my name to myself and everyone called me just Shannon, and I liked it! That is until Shannon Miller (Boy Shannon) showed up. Now, I like Boy Shannon a whole lot, he is a super smart and talented guy, but with an edge which makes him hot. His rough-around-the-edges charm was a refreshing change in a theatre department with its fair share of soft-around-the-edges guys. But for the next few years I would be known as Girl Shannon.

But hey, at least they were calling me Shannon (with an “N”). In way too many cases people mess up and call me Sharron (with an “R”). The name Sharron is special to me because it’s the name of one of my favorite aunts, Sharron Jewell. But it is frequently embarrassing when someone calls you by the wrong name… it brings to light how little they know you in the first place. It’s ok if you’re at the doctor’s office and a random receptionist calls out “Sharron Brown”. But once I played the organ at a church in West Virginia for two whole years, and on the day I was leaving for college one of the choir members said “Oh, Sharron, you played so nice….” I thanked them for the going-away bundt cake and the Fashion Bug gift card and I split.

Fast forward a few years to New York City 2001, and the hip, urban Shannon has evolved (well, sorta). I finally decided to open my own web design business and was hoping to buy the domain www.ShannonBrown.com. I thought it would be simple as I was on the cutting edge of the internet industry in Silicon Alley. But to my dismay I learned a big-boobed, blonde bombshell, country singer named Shannon Brown had already secured the domain for many years. CURSES! I had to buy the domain www.Shannon-Brown.com (with a hyphen). Problem is it’s hard for people to remember the hyphen! When I give a new client my email address, I include a disclaimer: “Shannon-hyphen-Brown-dot-com, the hyphen is very important, if you don’t use it your email will go to a big-boobed, blonde bombshell country singer in Tennessee and your website will not be fixed.”

AND WHAT’S WORSE, when you go to big-boobed, blonde bombshell country singer’s website you hear her belt out the title of her hit song “Corn Fed”. This does little to help my urban persona. And it’s alarming… it smacks you upside the head like this ***CORN—FEEEEDDDD!!!***. So many of my clients have gone to the wrong address and have been freaked out by it. And some have reported back to me…”Wow, your hot.” I’m like, no that’s not me, you forgot the hyphen, we talked about the hyphen.

So go on everyone… try it now… turn up your speakers and click here www.ShannonBrown.com. And then when you’re done with that, come over to my site www.Shannon-Brown.com and get yourself a new website!

So, I try to get over it by recognizing it could be worse. Just look at the Jennifers and the Johns and the Mikes of the world. Even Liza Minnelli once wrote a song called “Liza with a Z” because people so frequently call her “Lisa” (It’s Liza with a Z, not Lisa with an S, cause Lisa with an S goes ‘ssssss’ not ‘zzzzz’….). But as I sat at my desk last week reveling in being the only Shannon at Coleman Research Group, I hear the Director of Research introducing her new hire around the office “Everyone, this is Shannon….”

Dang it!

And there you have it. I stayed up late last night, I ate way too much sugar, my knuckles are looking a little bigger because of the last minute cracking, but I have once again claimed my name… www.facebook.com/shannonbrown. Success is mine at last!

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Shannon Brown is a web designer and cabaret performer in New York City. Her web designs can be seen at www.Shannon-Brown.com (make sure to use the hyphen!). Details and clips of her “Moonshine Martinis” cabaret can be found at www.MoonshineMartinis.com. And as of Saturday June 13, 2009 @ 12:01am she can also be found at www.facebook.com/shannonbrown.

“I had a dream…a wonderful dream…Oprah…”

Last night I saw Stearns Matthews’ show “I Was Here” at Don’t Tell Mama, and it was terrific! I enjoyed it start to finish. Now, I don’t know if it was the show or the Blueberry Lemonade* I drank, but last night I had a crazy dream about my own upcoming show…

The dream began with me onstage finishing up the last number in “Moonshine Martinis“. As many of you know, when you’re on the small stage at Don’t Tell Mama you can see the faces of the audience members clearly. But in my dream, the audience was faceless.

The show went well, there was thunderous applause (of course there was, it’s my dream, after all). Afterward, I asked the bartender if I could review the reservation list because I had no idea who had been in the room. He said, “Sure, but a copy will be $15.” I informed him that was way too expensive, and I wouldn’t need a copy.

Then Oprah walks out of the restroom.

She sits beside me “Shannon, your show was fantastic! I wanted to see it in September, but there was trouble at my school in Africa and I just couldn’t make it to New York.”

I was struck dumb! I started flipping through the reservation book looking for her name. I looked around the bar to see if other people noticed I was talking to Oprah. I shot a glance across the room to my friend, Sandra, who had met the only straight guy in the bar and was too busy canoodling with him to notice silly me and my new BFF, Oprah!

I had no other recourse but to dig for my cell phone and ask Oprah to scooch in so I could take our photo myself (tacky!), which I’m certain would have been Facebooked in my “Why I Love New York” photo album within minutes.

We found her name in the RSVP list, and she wrote her home address so I could be in touch. I said, “Oprah, be careful to write the correct zip code…I don’t want my letters to go to some other Oprah Winfrey in Des Moines or someplace like that…” (Stupid thing to say, but it made sense in the dream.)

She explained that Dr. Phil also enjoyed the show. Dr. Phil was there, too? Why didn’t I see him in the piano bar afterwards? I was flipping through the reservation book…movie stars, politicians, reviewers, they had all seen the performance! Some of them even wrote enthusiastic little messages to me in the margin of the notepad.

Well, $15 seemed like a great deal for a copy now! There was no way I was leaving without it.

But I couldn’t find the danged bartender! I needed this reservation list. And I needed my friend, Sandra, to witness that I was talking with Oprah, but she was still too busy with her own personal senior prom she had going in the corner. I stole the reservation book and we left (hey, I tried to buy it honestly…)

On the street I thanked Oprah for coming to “Moonshine Martinis”. I suggested, casually, that I join the ranks of other show regulars like Dr. Oz, or Nate Berkus, or Suze Orman. Surely Oprah needed a regular cabaret singer to round out her cast. I also told her I hope she runs for President someday…(true, I would like that.)

She leaned over as for a peck on the cheek. But to my surprise – she licked me! She licked my cheek! Oprah did! Now I’m sure to end up on the front page of the New York Post, a goal I’ve strived for my whole life long! And it would be the Easter Edition, nonetheless, and would probably read something like this “Jesus is Risen, Oprah Licks Cabaret Singer on 46th Street“. Oh, glorious day! Definitely something Mom would want to frame for the living room!

I woke up with Pixel licking my cheek…his eyes sparkling…tail wagging…ready for breakfast…

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Moonshine Martinis: A 60s & 70s Country Cabaret
Monday, May 4 @ 7:00PM
Don’t Tell Mama
343 West 46th Street, NYC
Reservations and info at www.moonshinemartinis.com
$10 Cover | $5 for MAC Members | 2 Drink Min. | Cash Only

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(*Disclaimer: The sweet waitstaff at Don’t Tell Mama have on occasion warned me that many people don’t like the Blueberry Lemonade. But, being someone who doesn’t always follow popular opinion, I order it anyway and enjoy it, though it really does pack a wallop!)

Mamie Meets the Mentalist

There was a movie out a number of years ago called “What Women Want” starring Mel Gibson and Helen Hunt (who I think is adorable…whatever happened to her?). It was about a man who could read women’s minds. I didn’t see the movie, but I met a mentalist last night who read my mind…and it really creeped me out.

I went to see the NYCity Slickers at the Iguana Lounge. Each Wednesday night the lounge hosts an ecclectic group of performers in a sort of “variety show” fashion. It’s called “Hump Night of the Iguana” (I’ll be performing there April 15…fyi!!  Details @ www.moonshinemartinis.com)

I got there, sat down, ordered my martini, made brief eye contact with the cute guy sitting at the next table over. I was in no mood to play another silly straight boy game, so I looked away. I got out the crackberry and bothered friends while I waited for the show to start.

5 minutes later the guy is sitting next to me. (“Ok, he’s cute…hair slicked back…maybe a little on the short side…whatever…)

He introduced himself “I’m Ken, what’s your name?”

“Mamie White” I replied. (“C’mon dork…you think I’m going to tell you my real name…I don’t know you…beat it! Cutie….”)

He proceeds to tell me he’s a mentalist, and he’s fully capable of reading my mind. (“Fancy trick you have there, buddy. Wish I could do the same.”)

So, I was intrigued. He hands me a business card and a postcard for his upcoming show. He’s just working the crowd, drumming up business as most performers do, and he offered to give me a little sample of his mind-reading skills.

He asked me to take my crackberry, go to my contacts, roll my thumb along the trackball and stop randomly whenever I felt like it. It landed on “Wendy the voice teacher”. I held the crackberry the whole time. He did not touch it or see it.

He gazes into my eyes. (“Shit. I feel like my eyes are open too wide, and I need to stop batting my eyelashes…but I can’t help it, you’re cute. I’m gonna narrow my eyes…you’ll never guess this one…”)

He said…”Hmmmmm…it’s a woman…” (“Ok, lucky guess, 50/50 chance.”)
“She’s got red hair.” (“Well…yeah, she’s got light red hair, kinda..but she colors it…”)
“She’s someone who helps you.”

At this point I audibly blurt out “Oh, stop it! Yes..ok, she does!” (“Shannon, please don’t encourage the guy…this is a trick…he’s reading your responses. And for the love of God, stop batting your eyes, fool! You look like someone with Turrets syndrome…”)

“She’s a musician. Her name is Wendy.”

Well, I was just floored. I know it’s a trick…but it’s such a good trick! I started to wonder, though, maybe he could actually read my mind. Which would be a scary thing — imagine if someone was really able to tell what you were thinking. Wouldn’t that be bothersome to you. Wouldn’t that be bothersome to them?

I begged him to do another trick. He agreed. This time he had me write the name of the first boy I kissed and where the kiss took place on the back of a business card. Then I was told to rip the card up. He guessed it with 100% accuracy… Michael…at the Man Public Libary.

I asked him where he was from he said “Missouri, but then we moved to West Virginia for 10 years”. I thought for certain he said West Virginia because he knew instinctively I was from West Virginia… but it appears he really did live there. He graduated from Huntington High in 1988.

During his set he dazzled the audience. Then he stopped back by my table on the way out and said “Goodnight, Shannon.”

“But I told you my name was Mamie.”

“I know….”

He Knows Me So Well….

Every morning I get my breakfast at the Hightone Deli on 40th Street. For the longest time, I had either a bagel and cream cheese, or the heart attack special every day (bacon, egg & cheese on a roll). Until Dad had a real heart attack…then I cut out the bagels entirely, and started having toast and a hard-boiled egg instead. I still allowed myself to have the heart attack special every Friday to celebrate the end of the week.

I started calling it the “Friday Delight”. The first time I ordered the Friday Delight the little Mexican guy behind the counter thought I said “Light”, as in low-cal, which didn’t compute to him at all. It took me a number of weeks to teach him that the Friday Delight meant bacon egg & cheese on a roll. But when he finally understood it, it became a little secret code we shared.

One week I mixed things up and ordered an eggs & cheese (no bacon) on toast on a Wednesday. I was surprised when I got to my office to see there was some bacon on my sandwich. I didn’t order bacon. I didn’t pay for bacon. I thought I’d accidentally picked up the wrong bag…and was going to enjoy some unlucky person’s breakfast. I took it as a sign from God that having bacon wasn’t going to kill me, and said a silent “Thank You” for the blessing.

Every time thereafter whether I ordered bacon or not, bacon was on my sandwich. I started to understand the little Mexican guy knew I couldn’t resist it. He saw me salivating over the bacon even on days when I orderd just toast. Was I that obvious…? I felt kinda guilty that I was not paying for bacon. But I couldn’t tell the Chinese deli owners because historically the Chinese punishment is pretty severe. And I didn’t want to rat on my bacon pusher.

One day, he messed up and they caught him giving me a sandwich with bacon. He turned red! I turned red! He played it off like it was a mistake…so I went along with it. Oopsy… That day I got egg and cheese with NO BACON! BAH!

Over the course of time he started a mild flirtation. He would take a blue marker and write “Friday Delight” with a little smiley face on my sandwich wrapper. One day he passed me my sandwich and said “It was made with love.”

But for weeks we played it safe…strictly no bacon unless I ordered it. UNTIL TODAY! Today I ordered a ham egg & cheese on a roll (I know it’s Monday, shut up!) and lo and behold there’s a little bacon on it, too! OMG, it’s heavenly…two meats, an egg, gooey melted cheese…on a buttery fluffy roll! With coffee! Hallelujah!

He knows me so well…

An Ace that I Could Keep

I’m an insomniac.  I feel certain it’s because I spend my waking hours at work,  or picking up dog poop (of which there is an endless supply), or wasting copious amounts of time on Facebook looking at the toothless, slobbery faces of my friends’ children.  Thus, there is little time left to be creative.

So in the middle of the night a creative thought strikes while my mind is unfettered.  The song “The Gambler”, sung by Kenny Rogers, is rolling through my head.  Have you ever analyzed that song?  I just did.  And it’s not about playing cards, people.

I believe it’s about knowing the battles to choose in life, and not worrying too much about the outcome.  Let’s take a look…

“You’ve got to know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em”

Ok, this means simply to recognize your circumstances as a possible winning hand or a losing hand.  Are your circumstances good?  Are you in a good relationship, have a great job, your 401K is anywhere near existent?   Great!  Then you should “hold ‘em”.

Or are your circumstances bad?  Your boyfriend will never change (hello, Rianna, don’t go back to Chris!), your job is going to continue to suck and never get better, you’re way in over your head in debt in a struggling economy?   Well, Rianna, maybe you should “fold ‘em”.

“Know when to walk away…know when to run”

If you’ve determined your situation is not good, do you sneak out, creep away, casually move toward a better situation?  Or do you dash for the door, jump into a cab,  withdraw every penny from your bank account and no one sees or hears from you again for  20 years when you turn up on a beach in  Maui.

“You never count your money when you’re sitting at the table”

This, in my opinion, means there’s no way to tell at a single moment what the outcome will be.  Never fully hang your hat on any one situation.  Situations change.  While you can estimate the way your life will turn out in most scenarious there’s no fool-proof way of knowing the future.  In other words, don’t count your chickens before they hatch.

“There’ll be time enough for countin’ when the dealins’ done”

Once your decisions been made, and you’ve taken action on the situation to the best of your knowledge, you can take a breather to see if you came out ahead or dug yourself into a deeper hole.  Then it starts all over again.  The goal, of course, being that you see what you did right or wrong, and you’ll know better how to win in the future.  The next “hand” you can try it all again!

Who knew that Kenny Rogers was so smart.

At this time, I think for most questions in my life it’s time to “hold ‘em”.  I have a job, my health, good friends, some talents that keep me going.  Eventually I’m going to “fold ‘em” on a few things…but knee jerk reactions right now are not in my cards.