Late this afternoon our doorbell rings. Because our intercom is broken, these days I hit the buzzer to enable the front door to open, and then I walk out of my apartment to see who is entering our building. Nine times out of ten it is a package courier who shouts up hello and places a package on the bureau we have in the downstairs hallway (unless, of course, they need a signature). So imagine my surprise, today, when the guy carrying the package into my building was not only not wearing a uniform, but he came bolting up the stairs to meet me.
Holding out a small-ish Amazon.com box, he starts rambling, "I live next door and we got this package and since my mom's name is Cathleen I didn't even look at it carefully and just opened it, but then I realized it wasn't meant for me, and so I'm sorry that the box is opened but it's a Garmin sportswatch and it's all in there."
I looked at him, blankly.
He extended his hand, "I'm Justin." I think he said Justin. He just ruined the surprise of the birthday gift that Cathleen got for me; why the fuck should I care what his name is? As he descended back down the stairs, he apologized again for opening the box, and then added an enthusiastic, "enjoy that Garmin sportswatch!"
This is December, right? Justin might not have known that it's my birthday in five days, but it's my impression that lots of people are ordering gifts for other people for other reasons at this time of year. I kind of wish he had taken that into consideration before ruining the surprise.
Not that anything was truly ruined for me. Most of the enjoyment of the actual surprise is all for the surprisor. Hell, I'm gonna be really psyched to have that Garmin watch whether I know about it now or first learned about it five days from now. But Cathleen has been robbed of the joy of watching me unwrap and discover the cool, thoughtful gift. Stupid Justin.
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
Intimate moment
Hey blog, I miss you.
I miss you, too, rick.
After Thanksgiving. I'll be back. I promise.
Sweet.
I miss you, too, rick.
After Thanksgiving. I'll be back. I promise.
Sweet.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Poop Game Revisited
Cathleen and I were chatting in the kitchen this evening, when we looked over and witnessed the kids playing the following game:
Max was laying on the floor, and Eliza would walk over and step on him, at which point he would yell out, "you stepped in poop!" and they would collapse into each other, laughing hysterically, before repeating the entire scene again.
I mean, even if we were to magically find a way to completely housebreak our dogs, it is just too damn late. Our kids are indelibly warped.
Max was laying on the floor, and Eliza would walk over and step on him, at which point he would yell out, "you stepped in poop!" and they would collapse into each other, laughing hysterically, before repeating the entire scene again.
I mean, even if we were to magically find a way to completely housebreak our dogs, it is just too damn late. Our kids are indelibly warped.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
There can be little doubt now, right?
I mean, you have to be a true believer at this point, one with unshakable faith in the greater power, to deny that capitalism is a complete failure. After years and years of deregulation, what do we get -- the greatest financial catastrophe since the catastrophe in the 30s that prompted us to start regulating the banks in the first place. You don't have to get caught up in the fact that capitalism inevitably creates class divisions, concentrations of wealth and deprivations of wealth, winners and losers. Shit, we've known that for years and are little bothered by it. But with every capitalist on Wall Street running to the government for help right now, and only the monied reactionaries in Congress adamantly holding out for a market correction (i.e., grand-scale suffering for those who do not have money or are about to lose it all), there can be no doubt now. Capitalism is a failure, and the only way that we can continue with our capitalist system is by propping it up, again, with government intervention.
Anybody feel like whipping out the "socialism" card in our next discussion about universal healthcare?
Anybody feel like whipping out the "socialism" card in our next discussion about universal healthcare?
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
What a fungi am I
It has been a bizarre six weeks for this guy's body. At the end of July I wound up with ringworm all over my torso. Ringworm, for the uninitiated, is the most misappropriately named medical condition out there. Worm? Not at all. It's actually a skin fungus -- the tinea fungus, to be exact. If you get the tinea fungus on your feet, it's called athlete's foot. If you get the tinea fungus on your crotch, it's call jock itch. Anywhere else and it's called ringworm. Granted, it does end up forming a ring-like patch on your skin that itches a little, but the very name ringworm makes it that much skeevier an experience.
It turns out that ringworm is wickedly contagious, and you can spread it all over yourself by scratching it (which I wasn't doing) or by something as innocuous as rubbing a towel on your body to dry yourself off after a shower. By the time I had figured out what was going on, I had it all over my stomach and back. Fortunately, they do amazing things with topical ointments these days, and within a couple of weeks it was gone.
Then, about a month later, I woke up with an earache. It was pretty severe, so I made an appointment to see my doctor the next day. He looked in my ear, declared it an ear infection and put me on antibiotics for ten days. Of course, I hadn't had any congestion leading up to the ear infection (or any other typical cause), so my doctor told me that if it hadn't cleared up within a week to call him. Well, I saw marginal progress at best by week's end. Although the ache had subsided from "chronic" to only "most of the time," my head felt like someone had pounded my left ear full of clay. I was half deaf and felt like I wanted to clear my ear out with an awl. I called my doctor, and he referred me to an otologist (ear specialist).
The ear guy peeked into my ear and said "antibiotics aren't going to take care of that." Turns out that I have, you guessed it, a fungal infection. This one is called aspergillus, and is treated with the same stuff you put on the ringworm, except in eardrop form. One week of the drops later, and the fungus is almost entirely gone.
A couple of thoughts, of course, come to mind. Ahem, why the hell am I suddenly so vulnerable to every little fungus? According to the doctor, and based on my own obsessive online research, it's just one of those things that happens.
And it's bad enough to get ringworm, but a fungus in the ear? The ear? I basically had the equivalent of a yeast infection in my ear. I mean, if that's not some sort of bizarre twist on a Nantucketian limerick. I have no idea what to expect next.
It turns out that ringworm is wickedly contagious, and you can spread it all over yourself by scratching it (which I wasn't doing) or by something as innocuous as rubbing a towel on your body to dry yourself off after a shower. By the time I had figured out what was going on, I had it all over my stomach and back. Fortunately, they do amazing things with topical ointments these days, and within a couple of weeks it was gone.
Then, about a month later, I woke up with an earache. It was pretty severe, so I made an appointment to see my doctor the next day. He looked in my ear, declared it an ear infection and put me on antibiotics for ten days. Of course, I hadn't had any congestion leading up to the ear infection (or any other typical cause), so my doctor told me that if it hadn't cleared up within a week to call him. Well, I saw marginal progress at best by week's end. Although the ache had subsided from "chronic" to only "most of the time," my head felt like someone had pounded my left ear full of clay. I was half deaf and felt like I wanted to clear my ear out with an awl. I called my doctor, and he referred me to an otologist (ear specialist).
The ear guy peeked into my ear and said "antibiotics aren't going to take care of that." Turns out that I have, you guessed it, a fungal infection. This one is called aspergillus, and is treated with the same stuff you put on the ringworm, except in eardrop form. One week of the drops later, and the fungus is almost entirely gone.
A couple of thoughts, of course, come to mind. Ahem, why the hell am I suddenly so vulnerable to every little fungus? According to the doctor, and based on my own obsessive online research, it's just one of those things that happens.
And it's bad enough to get ringworm, but a fungus in the ear? The ear? I basically had the equivalent of a yeast infection in my ear. I mean, if that's not some sort of bizarre twist on a Nantucketian limerick. I have no idea what to expect next.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
The Hiatus is Over
So I haven't posted a blog in almost two months. Does that make me a bad blogger? Perhaps.
I've been busy...vacation in Canada, sleep-depriving Olympics-watching addiction, unhealthy Democratic National Convention watching, swamped at work, etc., etc. Sure, there was plenty to blog about. Hell, rarely a day went by where I didn't think that X or Y would be good blog fodder, but then I'd find myself waking up the next morning, postless.
But it is time to move on. Last week marked the one year anniversary of this blog, and damn if I don't feel a year older for it.
I've been busy...vacation in Canada, sleep-depriving Olympics-watching addiction, unhealthy Democratic National Convention watching, swamped at work, etc., etc. Sure, there was plenty to blog about. Hell, rarely a day went by where I didn't think that X or Y would be good blog fodder, but then I'd find myself waking up the next morning, postless.
But it is time to move on. Last week marked the one year anniversary of this blog, and damn if I don't feel a year older for it.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Dinner at our house
Cathleen cooks up a savory dish of sauteed organic vegetables (from our Community Supported Agriculture share) over pasta. After a few bites, Eliza starts placing her pasta into her glass of chocolate milk. Cathleen and I glance at each other and silently shrug. Eliza then picks up her glass and drinks the milk.
Moments later, Max starts talking.
Max: This winter I am going to find two snowflakes that are exactly alike.
Cathleen: You know, Max, that there are no two snowflakes that are exactly alike, just like humans.
Max(without even looking up): You'll see.
Moments later, Max starts talking.
Max: This winter I am going to find two snowflakes that are exactly alike.
Cathleen: You know, Max, that there are no two snowflakes that are exactly alike, just like humans.
Max(without even looking up): You'll see.
Still here
Wow, it has been 19 days since I last posted. I'm finding it more difficult to find the time to wax poetic in this forum. I typically post at night, and lately I've been consumed with watching baseball, playing ultimate, and going to sleep, all of which seem to preclude a certain amount of blogability.
Not that I've been without thoughts and experiences. July has been a busy month, with highs and lows.
I flew out to L.A. by my lonesome on July 6th to attend Sameer and Shruti's wedding. It was a marvelous happening at a semi-exotic locale. It was a traditional Indian (Gujarati) wedding, or at least as traditional as I could tell, which made it a fascinating cultural experience for me, on top of the fact that I was so damn happy to watch Sameer get married. I felt a little bit of the outsider all weekend, given that I was "the high school friend" who did not fit neatly into any of the larger groups of friends, but Sameer, not surprisingly, has surrounded himself with warm, sincere and interesting people, and they welcomed me into their fold with open arms. Very good time for me, though I missed Cathleen and the kids. This past weekend Cathleen and I attended a larger Connecticut reception hosted by Sameer's parents. Mike also attended and we were most interested in hanging out with each other (something that we don't get to do too often anymore, certainly not as adults).
I then had to return to my office to fully confront the reality that Bloomberg and the City Council, in what can only be described as an odious and cowardly move, completely gutted HIV Legal Services funding as part of an approximately $70 million wack at human services programs. Sure, they managed to find a way to keep the middle class property tax rebate in the budget (thank goodness I'll still get my $400!) but they abandoned the City's most vulnerable residents. My program took a $111,000 hit -- I'm not only at risk of having to lay off two-three employees, but unless I find alternate funding we are going to be without funding to provide housing legal services (eviction prevention work), which just happens to be the most important issue our clients face. Needless to say, I was pretty depressed for a few days, but adversity kind of gets my juices flowing and I'm resolved to find alternate funding. Game on. We already completed a grant application that I feel pretty good about it, and we're pursuing a couple of other avenues.
SLIPPING has been garnering great reviews. We don't know yet how well it has bee selling, but there's an incredibly positive vibe about the book lingering in the air. Maybe that's a bit naive, but Cathleen has been receiving such overwhelmingly positive and supportive feedback that I feel confident in saying that some identifiable level of "success" has been achieved. So far two otherwise-unconnected young readers have emailed her after having read the book to express how much they enjoyed it. Fanmail! How cool!
Finally, for reasons I need not get into here, I was recently forced to confront my father's death in a way I had not had to do in years. And you know what? Twenty-three years later and his death is still painful for me. As difficult as it was to be taken back to that time and encounter those feelings of loss and grief, it was strangely reassuring, like I hadn't lost my connection with him after all of these years. In a choice between feeling something or nothing, I'll always take the something.
Not that I've been without thoughts and experiences. July has been a busy month, with highs and lows.
I flew out to L.A. by my lonesome on July 6th to attend Sameer and Shruti's wedding. It was a marvelous happening at a semi-exotic locale. It was a traditional Indian (Gujarati) wedding, or at least as traditional as I could tell, which made it a fascinating cultural experience for me, on top of the fact that I was so damn happy to watch Sameer get married. I felt a little bit of the outsider all weekend, given that I was "the high school friend" who did not fit neatly into any of the larger groups of friends, but Sameer, not surprisingly, has surrounded himself with warm, sincere and interesting people, and they welcomed me into their fold with open arms. Very good time for me, though I missed Cathleen and the kids. This past weekend Cathleen and I attended a larger Connecticut reception hosted by Sameer's parents. Mike also attended and we were most interested in hanging out with each other (something that we don't get to do too often anymore, certainly not as adults).
I then had to return to my office to fully confront the reality that Bloomberg and the City Council, in what can only be described as an odious and cowardly move, completely gutted HIV Legal Services funding as part of an approximately $70 million wack at human services programs. Sure, they managed to find a way to keep the middle class property tax rebate in the budget (thank goodness I'll still get my $400!) but they abandoned the City's most vulnerable residents. My program took a $111,000 hit -- I'm not only at risk of having to lay off two-three employees, but unless I find alternate funding we are going to be without funding to provide housing legal services (eviction prevention work), which just happens to be the most important issue our clients face. Needless to say, I was pretty depressed for a few days, but adversity kind of gets my juices flowing and I'm resolved to find alternate funding. Game on. We already completed a grant application that I feel pretty good about it, and we're pursuing a couple of other avenues.
SLIPPING has been garnering great reviews. We don't know yet how well it has bee selling, but there's an incredibly positive vibe about the book lingering in the air. Maybe that's a bit naive, but Cathleen has been receiving such overwhelmingly positive and supportive feedback that I feel confident in saying that some identifiable level of "success" has been achieved. So far two otherwise-unconnected young readers have emailed her after having read the book to express how much they enjoyed it. Fanmail! How cool!
Finally, for reasons I need not get into here, I was recently forced to confront my father's death in a way I had not had to do in years. And you know what? Twenty-three years later and his death is still painful for me. As difficult as it was to be taken back to that time and encounter those feelings of loss and grief, it was strangely reassuring, like I hadn't lost my connection with him after all of these years. In a choice between feeling something or nothing, I'll always take the something.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Slipmania
It's here. And there. And somewhat everywhere. SLIPPING is out. June 24th was the official release date, which mainly meant that amazon.com shipped out it's pre-orders. Our pre-ordered copy arrived the next day. Yes, I said our pre-ordered copy. Cathleen's contract with Bloomsbury guaranteed her 25 author's copies, but she was so excited at seeing the book listed on amazon a few months ago that she ordered one.
A day or two later Lorri emailed around photos of Ari standing in a western New York Barnes & Noble pointing to copies of SLIPPING on the bookshelf, and holding it in the store. Very cool stuff.
Around mid-week, Cathleen's editor forwarded to her a PDF from Publisher's Weekly with their forthcoming review. SLIPPING received a "Signature" review, and it was fairly glowing. Here's a clip from a New York Sun article in 2005 explaining the significance of such a review:
PW reviews are important because they can jump-start the publicity for a book or can, just as easily, push a book a lot closer to oblivion. PW claims that its policy of unsigned reviewing is done not to shield reviewers but to ensure a consistency of standard and tone.
The magazine's new editor, Sara Nelson, who is making major changes in the publication, said, "We hope to have a signature review in many issues. We want to match up a fairly prominent book with a fairly prominent reviewer. Frank McCourt is, of course, a very prominent reviewer. We will still have non-bylined reviews. But certain books just seem to scream out for special treatment."
So, you know, it was pretty exciting to see that review. It was published in the June 30th edition of Publisher's Weekly.
Last night we hosted a book release party at Pacific Standard, a great little pub around the corner from our home. We had platters of food from Fairway, I had ordered custom-made M&Ms in two different shades of blue that had "Slipping" printed on them, and there was an employee of a local bookstore, Book Court, hawking copies of the book. Approximately 30 friends and family showed up to celebrate with Cathleen and listen to her read from the book, but she had laryngitis! Are you kidding! Thanks to drastic measures, she had enough of her voice to socialize, but I had to step in as her reader proxy. On one level it was disappointing for her to not be able to read to this crowd; on the other hand she really enjoyed listening to her book being read out loud. And I had a lot of fun reading it. Woohoo, we were all having fun!
We still haven't seen it in a bookstore ourselves. Maybe we'll do that this weekend. It's pretty good times right now.
A day or two later Lorri emailed around photos of Ari standing in a western New York Barnes & Noble pointing to copies of SLIPPING on the bookshelf, and holding it in the store. Very cool stuff.
Around mid-week, Cathleen's editor forwarded to her a PDF from Publisher's Weekly with their forthcoming review. SLIPPING received a "Signature" review, and it was fairly glowing. Here's a clip from a New York Sun article in 2005 explaining the significance of such a review:
PW reviews are important because they can jump-start the publicity for a book or can, just as easily, push a book a lot closer to oblivion. PW claims that its policy of unsigned reviewing is done not to shield reviewers but to ensure a consistency of standard and tone.
The magazine's new editor, Sara Nelson, who is making major changes in the publication, said, "We hope to have a signature review in many issues. We want to match up a fairly prominent book with a fairly prominent reviewer. Frank McCourt is, of course, a very prominent reviewer. We will still have non-bylined reviews. But certain books just seem to scream out for special treatment."
So, you know, it was pretty exciting to see that review. It was published in the June 30th edition of Publisher's Weekly.
Last night we hosted a book release party at Pacific Standard, a great little pub around the corner from our home. We had platters of food from Fairway, I had ordered custom-made M&Ms in two different shades of blue that had "Slipping" printed on them, and there was an employee of a local bookstore, Book Court, hawking copies of the book. Approximately 30 friends and family showed up to celebrate with Cathleen and listen to her read from the book, but she had laryngitis! Are you kidding! Thanks to drastic measures, she had enough of her voice to socialize, but I had to step in as her reader proxy. On one level it was disappointing for her to not be able to read to this crowd; on the other hand she really enjoyed listening to her book being read out loud. And I had a lot of fun reading it. Woohoo, we were all having fun!
We still haven't seen it in a bookstore ourselves. Maybe we'll do that this weekend. It's pretty good times right now.
Friday, June 27, 2008
I am fuel, you are friends, we got the means to make amends
Hey look at me, titling consecutive blog entries with song lyrics. And hey, look at me, writing consecutive blog entries about Sameer.
He and I went to the Pearl Jam concert in the Garden on Tuesday night. Eddie Vedder has to be the most essentially cool person in the world. Could not take my eyes off of him, no matter what was going on in the concert. The band played for three and a half hours, and it was sensational. I was particularly psyched that they played "Leash" and "Given to Fly"; was kind of hoping to hear "World Wide Suicide" and "Jeremy" but didn't. The concert featured a healthy mix of old, new and everything in between. There are few experiences that approximate the energy of 20,000 people singing along in unison to a completely electrified band. It was so loud that I would not have been able to tell if I was singing along or not had my throat not been hurting from the effort.
Delight, delight, delight in our youth...
He and I went to the Pearl Jam concert in the Garden on Tuesday night. Eddie Vedder has to be the most essentially cool person in the world. Could not take my eyes off of him, no matter what was going on in the concert. The band played for three and a half hours, and it was sensational. I was particularly psyched that they played "Leash" and "Given to Fly"; was kind of hoping to hear "World Wide Suicide" and "Jeremy" but didn't. The concert featured a healthy mix of old, new and everything in between. There are few experiences that approximate the energy of 20,000 people singing along in unison to a completely electrified band. It was so loud that I would not have been able to tell if I was singing along or not had my throat not been hurting from the effort.
Delight, delight, delight in our youth...
All summer long, we sang a song
Sameer Ashar and I have been friends since the 8th grade. At the end of the 8th grade, some high school kids came to our middle school to recruit folks for the debate team. Sameer and I attended that meeting, listened to their nerdy pitch, and decided we would be debate partners the next year. We spent the next four years of high school developing a debate partnership that turned us into a nationally competitive team (arguably a top 10 or 12 team in the country)(arguably...get it?), while cultivating a deep, deep friendship. Since high school it has seemed, with some exception, like we've never been farther than 20 minutes apart from each other: we went to colleges 20 minutes apart from each other, law schools 20 minutes apart from each other, we worked for a while in downtown Manhattan near each other, and now we live about ten blocks from each other in Brooklyn. He is terrible at returning phone calls, is almost guaranteed to be late to any appointment, is a frickin Yankees fan, and is one of the very best people I know in the world. And, finally, that boy is getting married.
Last Saturday I gathered with four other of Sameer's friends (Ajit, Deepu, Tito and George) to engage in that right of passage called "the bachelor party." We drove up to Cornwall-on-Hudson and kayaked on the Hudson River. It was a gloriously sunny day, and I could not have imagined doing anything better than kayaking on that expanse of river (and off through a marshy tributary). When we finished the kayak trip, I had to teach Tito how to use his keys to get into his car, and then we dined on pizza and ice cream at a local joint. We drove back to Brooklyn, dined at a trendy but middling Mexican restaurant in Red Hook called Alma, and then headed to a karaoke bar.
I've never done karaoke. Honest. It's not just that I've never sung karaoke; I've never actually been to a karaoke gathering of any sort. The bar that we went to (the Hope 'n Anchor in Red Hook) had the kind of karaoke where it is basically open mike at the bar. You would peruse a book that listed the 15,000 different songs that you could sing, and then submit a post-it with your song on it to the 7-foot trans woman who was hosting the karaoke. Really, she had to be 7 feet tall, and she wore a glorious blonde afro wig. Sameer led off for us with Pearl Jam's "Elderly Woman behind the counter..." and then it was game on. Deepu, Ajit and Tito sang a range of pop hits (Sweet Home Alabama, I'm Just a Gigolo, etc.). Sameer and Ajit performed a duet to The Killers' "All These things that I've Become" ("I've got soul, but I'm not a soldier..."). The pressure on me to sing was mounting.
I don't know what other karaoke scenes are like, but with the exception of our little crew, this seemed like a fairly serious karaoke scene. Every member of the bar's staff, including our 7-foot hostess, would take turns singing a song and they were all amazing. There was another woman in the bar who simply had a professional-sounding voice. When she belted out "Me and Bobby McGee," you almost believed that Janis Joplin had been resurrected. I was intimidated, yes.
But a couple of whiskeys in me, and singing became an inevitability. I searched for a short song, and came up with Sinatra's "Summer Wind." I started in a bit late on the song but ended admirably -- heck, a drunk couple even got up and danced while I sang. When it was over, sure, I felt like a man. A man, that is, that doesn't need to sing any more songs in a bar for quite some time.
Sameer's wedding is in L.A. in a little over a week, and I'm looking forward to partying with those crazy boys again.
Last Saturday I gathered with four other of Sameer's friends (Ajit, Deepu, Tito and George) to engage in that right of passage called "the bachelor party." We drove up to Cornwall-on-Hudson and kayaked on the Hudson River. It was a gloriously sunny day, and I could not have imagined doing anything better than kayaking on that expanse of river (and off through a marshy tributary). When we finished the kayak trip, I had to teach Tito how to use his keys to get into his car, and then we dined on pizza and ice cream at a local joint. We drove back to Brooklyn, dined at a trendy but middling Mexican restaurant in Red Hook called Alma, and then headed to a karaoke bar.
I've never done karaoke. Honest. It's not just that I've never sung karaoke; I've never actually been to a karaoke gathering of any sort. The bar that we went to (the Hope 'n Anchor in Red Hook) had the kind of karaoke where it is basically open mike at the bar. You would peruse a book that listed the 15,000 different songs that you could sing, and then submit a post-it with your song on it to the 7-foot trans woman who was hosting the karaoke. Really, she had to be 7 feet tall, and she wore a glorious blonde afro wig. Sameer led off for us with Pearl Jam's "Elderly Woman behind the counter..." and then it was game on. Deepu, Ajit and Tito sang a range of pop hits (Sweet Home Alabama, I'm Just a Gigolo, etc.). Sameer and Ajit performed a duet to The Killers' "All These things that I've Become" ("I've got soul, but I'm not a soldier..."). The pressure on me to sing was mounting.
I don't know what other karaoke scenes are like, but with the exception of our little crew, this seemed like a fairly serious karaoke scene. Every member of the bar's staff, including our 7-foot hostess, would take turns singing a song and they were all amazing. There was another woman in the bar who simply had a professional-sounding voice. When she belted out "Me and Bobby McGee," you almost believed that Janis Joplin had been resurrected. I was intimidated, yes.
But a couple of whiskeys in me, and singing became an inevitability. I searched for a short song, and came up with Sinatra's "Summer Wind." I started in a bit late on the song but ended admirably -- heck, a drunk couple even got up and danced while I sang. When it was over, sure, I felt like a man. A man, that is, that doesn't need to sing any more songs in a bar for quite some time.
Sameer's wedding is in L.A. in a little over a week, and I'm looking forward to partying with those crazy boys again.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Hey, drunk lady
One of my dogs is taking a crap.
The other one is barking hysterically at you.
And I'm not making any eye contact, while trying to walk away.
What is it about this set of circumstances that leads you to believe that I want to have a conversation with you about anything, no less your aunt's five dogs?
Thank you, however, for repeatedly telling me that my dogs are beautiful. Not everyone appreciates them, like you do, when one is squatting and the other is yapping his head off.
The other one is barking hysterically at you.
And I'm not making any eye contact, while trying to walk away.
What is it about this set of circumstances that leads you to believe that I want to have a conversation with you about anything, no less your aunt's five dogs?
Thank you, however, for repeatedly telling me that my dogs are beautiful. Not everyone appreciates them, like you do, when one is squatting and the other is yapping his head off.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Cruisin'
On Friday we headed up to Bloomfield so that Cathleen could run in a Run for the Cure 5K (re breast cancer) with some high school friends in Hartford on Saturday morning. Cathleen and the kids drove up to my office school and arrived at around 4:30. There was some trouble with the car, Cathleen informed me, that had developed in the latter part of her drive to the Bronx; there was a bad bumping noise coming from around the front passenger side tire.
Oh. That's right. A few days earlier, while driving home from summer league, I encountered a horrendous patch of newly-scratched up under-construction roadway on the BQE that had not been so scratched up the week before. The car had gone bang and bop, and then I seemed to be feeling every bump from every piece of gravel on the road. By the time I awoke the next morning, however, I had forgotten about it, and Cathleen had not noticed anything driving either to or from school in the ensuing days.
Now we were in the Bronx, with all of our stuff, shortly before dinner time. We took the car to the local Midas guy near my office, whom I've used before and trust. At 15 minutes before closing time, he put the car up on the rack and showed me where the right-front spring was shattered. Well, that would explain that. No spring in stock; he could get one and repair it Saturday. When I told him we were actually en route to CT for the weekend, he recommended we go to the Enterprise rental place half a block away. So we did.
I never know what to expect from the service sector in the Bronx. Rude? Shoddy? Perfectly fine? It can be a gamble of sorts. The Enterprise on East Fordham Road was interesting: there were six guys in suits walking around, only two of whom appeared to be actually servicing any rental customer at any given time. The other four would take turns asking you what you were there for, and if you had signed in yet. Everyone was nice and friendly and seemed to be accommodating, but it didn't look like anything was getting done. And the place was packed with customers. My wife and I, with our two young kids, and our two small dogs, spent an hour there. To all of my small creatures' credit, they all did quite well given the circumstances: the dogs were under control the entire time; Max was incredibly well-behaved, but for periodic whining about how bored he was because it was taking so long (neither of which I minded, because it gave me an opportunity to audibilize patient, yet needling responses, that the men in the office were working as fast as they could to get us a car); Eliza became antsy after a while, so Cathleen took her outside for a walk. It could have been a lot worse.
When it was time for me to pick out a car, I was led into an adjoining garage. I told the guy I just wanted the cheapest rental they had available. Well, he told me, the cheapest they normally have is a Ford Focus sedan, but he'd give me a PT Cruiser for the same rate.
The PT Cruiser has been around for, what, a decade or so? Let me tell you something about that car: I have never liked it. A car that looks like a miniature hearse? Who the hell came up with that design idea? I have been so convinced of the absurdity of the Cruiser's appearance that to this day I cannot believe that there is anyone who takes that car seriously. One year I played at the Poultrydays ultimate tourney in rural, western Ohio on a combo Haverford-Swarthmore graduates team. One of the Swat grads, whom I of course did not know, had rented a PT Cruiser as his car for the weekend. I eventually learned that he was very excited about this rental, and had paid a lot in order to get it. Indeed, while everyone else camped at the fields in tents that weekend, he slept in the Cruiser (like a cadaver?). Not even giving a moment's consideration that someone might actually think that the Hearsemobile was cool, I started making fun of it from the get-go, and quickly alienated this complete stranger. I have a talent for that kind of thing. All was made up when, early in our first game, I cut deep and laid out to catch a swilly, overthrown huck that the guy had put up (most interpersonal conflict, I have learned, can be resolved if you simply catch someone's crappy throws).
So, standing there in the Enterprise car rental facility at 6 pm, I grabbed the Cruiser. I am all about maximizing the irony in my life.
The PT Cruiser is pretty much as ridiculous on the inside as it is on the outside. We were in a 2008 model, and yet the dashboard display was in old-fashioned dial readout form. The only digital display was a function where you could observe what kind of gas mileage you were getting, a piece of information that you'd think Chrysler would not want to make readily available given that this car was topping off at 20 mpg on the highway. Although the car handled the road quite well, it had the turning radius of a large elephant.
Eliza spent much of the drive up to CT, and much of the ride home yesterday, asking about and discussing why we were in this car.
"Why are we in this car?"
"Our car is broken."
"Our car is broken?"
"Yes, a man is going to fix our car, and then we'll get it back."
"Man going to fix our car?"
"Yes."
Pause. "Why are we in this car?"
At first I thought it was just her two-year-old brain processing the entire experience, but then I realized this is Eliza, my brilliant daughter. She is not asking why are we in a car that is not our car; she understood that the PT Cruiser was an absurd vehicle. "Why, Daddy," she was basically asking, "are you driving me around in this asinine joke?" Geez, I do love that little girl.
The balance of the weekend was great: Cathleen had a great run on Saturday (did the 5K in about 30 minutes flat), the kids road on the local carousel, we took a long hike in the sweltering afternoon up a nearby mountain (at Max's insistence; he is really into hiking and did not waiver once in his enthusiasm for the experience), took a cool dip in the neighbor's pool, had a terrific dinner and then drove home at night. This morning I went out for a 4-mile run and nearly died in the heat, and then we went to Max's classmate's birthday party in Prospect Park, before coming home, installing the AC in the livingroom window (mercifully!), grilling and bedtime.
Oh. That's right. A few days earlier, while driving home from summer league, I encountered a horrendous patch of newly-scratched up under-construction roadway on the BQE that had not been so scratched up the week before. The car had gone bang and bop, and then I seemed to be feeling every bump from every piece of gravel on the road. By the time I awoke the next morning, however, I had forgotten about it, and Cathleen had not noticed anything driving either to or from school in the ensuing days.
Now we were in the Bronx, with all of our stuff, shortly before dinner time. We took the car to the local Midas guy near my office, whom I've used before and trust. At 15 minutes before closing time, he put the car up on the rack and showed me where the right-front spring was shattered. Well, that would explain that. No spring in stock; he could get one and repair it Saturday. When I told him we were actually en route to CT for the weekend, he recommended we go to the Enterprise rental place half a block away. So we did.
I never know what to expect from the service sector in the Bronx. Rude? Shoddy? Perfectly fine? It can be a gamble of sorts. The Enterprise on East Fordham Road was interesting: there were six guys in suits walking around, only two of whom appeared to be actually servicing any rental customer at any given time. The other four would take turns asking you what you were there for, and if you had signed in yet. Everyone was nice and friendly and seemed to be accommodating, but it didn't look like anything was getting done. And the place was packed with customers. My wife and I, with our two young kids, and our two small dogs, spent an hour there. To all of my small creatures' credit, they all did quite well given the circumstances: the dogs were under control the entire time; Max was incredibly well-behaved, but for periodic whining about how bored he was because it was taking so long (neither of which I minded, because it gave me an opportunity to audibilize patient, yet needling responses, that the men in the office were working as fast as they could to get us a car); Eliza became antsy after a while, so Cathleen took her outside for a walk. It could have been a lot worse.
When it was time for me to pick out a car, I was led into an adjoining garage. I told the guy I just wanted the cheapest rental they had available. Well, he told me, the cheapest they normally have is a Ford Focus sedan, but he'd give me a PT Cruiser for the same rate.
The PT Cruiser has been around for, what, a decade or so? Let me tell you something about that car: I have never liked it. A car that looks like a miniature hearse? Who the hell came up with that design idea? I have been so convinced of the absurdity of the Cruiser's appearance that to this day I cannot believe that there is anyone who takes that car seriously. One year I played at the Poultrydays ultimate tourney in rural, western Ohio on a combo Haverford-Swarthmore graduates team. One of the Swat grads, whom I of course did not know, had rented a PT Cruiser as his car for the weekend. I eventually learned that he was very excited about this rental, and had paid a lot in order to get it. Indeed, while everyone else camped at the fields in tents that weekend, he slept in the Cruiser (like a cadaver?). Not even giving a moment's consideration that someone might actually think that the Hearsemobile was cool, I started making fun of it from the get-go, and quickly alienated this complete stranger. I have a talent for that kind of thing. All was made up when, early in our first game, I cut deep and laid out to catch a swilly, overthrown huck that the guy had put up (most interpersonal conflict, I have learned, can be resolved if you simply catch someone's crappy throws).
So, standing there in the Enterprise car rental facility at 6 pm, I grabbed the Cruiser. I am all about maximizing the irony in my life.
The PT Cruiser is pretty much as ridiculous on the inside as it is on the outside. We were in a 2008 model, and yet the dashboard display was in old-fashioned dial readout form. The only digital display was a function where you could observe what kind of gas mileage you were getting, a piece of information that you'd think Chrysler would not want to make readily available given that this car was topping off at 20 mpg on the highway. Although the car handled the road quite well, it had the turning radius of a large elephant.
Eliza spent much of the drive up to CT, and much of the ride home yesterday, asking about and discussing why we were in this car.
"Why are we in this car?"
"Our car is broken."
"Our car is broken?"
"Yes, a man is going to fix our car, and then we'll get it back."
"Man going to fix our car?"
"Yes."
Pause. "Why are we in this car?"
At first I thought it was just her two-year-old brain processing the entire experience, but then I realized this is Eliza, my brilliant daughter. She is not asking why are we in a car that is not our car; she understood that the PT Cruiser was an absurd vehicle. "Why, Daddy," she was basically asking, "are you driving me around in this asinine joke?" Geez, I do love that little girl.
The balance of the weekend was great: Cathleen had a great run on Saturday (did the 5K in about 30 minutes flat), the kids road on the local carousel, we took a long hike in the sweltering afternoon up a nearby mountain (at Max's insistence; he is really into hiking and did not waiver once in his enthusiasm for the experience), took a cool dip in the neighbor's pool, had a terrific dinner and then drove home at night. This morning I went out for a 4-mile run and nearly died in the heat, and then we went to Max's classmate's birthday party in Prospect Park, before coming home, installing the AC in the livingroom window (mercifully!), grilling and bedtime.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Monday, May 26, 2008
The Break-In
Woke up a little groggy on Saturday morning, having stayed up late to watch the Mets lose in extra innings. When Jose, the Executive Director at Bronx AIDS Services, called me at 7:30 I had yet to consume a needed cup of coffee or even attempt to communicate in full sentences. When I heard his voice on my cellphone, my brain couldn't even compute that it was him calling. "Why is Jose calling me, at 7:30 am, on a Saturday morning?" This three-part question could have been answered rather immediately had I been listening to him and not groggily formulating that three-part question in my mind. Gradually, I regained communication cognizance, I understood him to be telling me that someone had broken into the BAS offices and had done a number on the legal department.
Hey, that's my department. My pride and joy. My homely home away from home.
I showered, brewed that much-needed cup of coffee and jumped in the car...zoom to the office.
BAS "main office" is at 540 East Fordham Road. It's a busy road, even by urban standards. Our offices are on the second floor of a two-story building. The legal department occupies the eastern side of the street-facing portion of the building. We have four windowed-offices, with the secretary/senior paralegal office at the easternmost end, then a pair of two-attorney offices, and then there's my office. Opposite these offices, in the interior of the building, is an alcove where our two other paralegals sit.
My would-be burglar entered BAS through one of the windows in the secretary/senior paralegal office via a glass-smashing crowbar. He proceeded to spend some time trying to get into our safe - he managed to break off the door handle and the number-dial thing, but couldn't get the door open. Not sure how we're going to get that door open now, but I suppose that's for the locksmith to figure out. Burglar dude then played around with the computers in the office, knocking them over to see what he could easily transport out of the place I suppose. He rifled through cabinet drawers, spilling all sorts of paperwork on the floor, looking for items of the value (none to be found). I imagine he was in that office for a good 10 - 15 minutes or so, before heading out into the hallway at around 4:15 am. That's when the motion-sensor alarm system discovered him.
Not sure when he decided to fnd the alarm keypad and smash it off the wall, but I suspect it was soon after the alarm went off. He then (or before then) went into the two attorney offices and tried dismantling the computers. He made some more of a mess as he continued his search for valuables. In the third office, he actually took a pair of scissors and cut the cords that connect the monitors to the computers. He then wrapped the two monitors in that office in a brown hooded-sweatjacket and took them into the secretary/senior paralegal office. That's where we found them.
He then probably headed down to my office, stopping at the supply cabinet outside my office where he rifled through the supplies, spilling many of them onto the floor. In my office, he took almost all of the loose change I keep in a dish on my desk (hey, how the hell am I going to pay for that afternoon package of Skittles, asshole!), and he opened a cabinet where I keep all of my funding binders (the government contracts, correspondence, data reports). These binders have often given me the urge to want to flee the building, but I bet that it was right around this time that the cop cars, responding to the triggered alarm system, finally appeared, because lame-ass burglar dude bolted out of the legal area towards the back of the agency, where he escaped via a roof hatch in the ceiling. I've worked in that office for seven years and never knew that there was a roof hatch.
Well, when I arrived at the office at around 8:30 am on Saturday, surveying all of the damage was a bit shocking. Here's a tip for all of you asiring legal directors out there: staring at a ransacked office is about the only time that it is OK to say "that dirty motherfucker" in front of your executive director.
The good news is that, with the exception of about three dollars in loose change from my office, it does not appear that he got away with anything. Some of our computers might be damaged (at the very least we've lost those two monitors), but insurance will cover that kind of loss, and all of our data/records are on a network so the hardware is completely fungible. He made a mess, particularly in the secretary/senior paralegal office, but clean-up should not take much more than an hour or two on Tuesday morning. Bozo the burglar left behind his sweatjacket (duh) and no doubt a bunch of fingerprints, so I'm optimistic that the police have something to work with. And we have a good story to tell.
Hey, that's my department. My pride and joy. My homely home away from home.
I showered, brewed that much-needed cup of coffee and jumped in the car...zoom to the office.
BAS "main office" is at 540 East Fordham Road. It's a busy road, even by urban standards. Our offices are on the second floor of a two-story building. The legal department occupies the eastern side of the street-facing portion of the building. We have four windowed-offices, with the secretary/senior paralegal office at the easternmost end, then a pair of two-attorney offices, and then there's my office. Opposite these offices, in the interior of the building, is an alcove where our two other paralegals sit.
My would-be burglar entered BAS through one of the windows in the secretary/senior paralegal office via a glass-smashing crowbar. He proceeded to spend some time trying to get into our safe - he managed to break off the door handle and the number-dial thing, but couldn't get the door open. Not sure how we're going to get that door open now, but I suppose that's for the locksmith to figure out. Burglar dude then played around with the computers in the office, knocking them over to see what he could easily transport out of the place I suppose. He rifled through cabinet drawers, spilling all sorts of paperwork on the floor, looking for items of the value (none to be found). I imagine he was in that office for a good 10 - 15 minutes or so, before heading out into the hallway at around 4:15 am. That's when the motion-sensor alarm system discovered him.
Not sure when he decided to fnd the alarm keypad and smash it off the wall, but I suspect it was soon after the alarm went off. He then (or before then) went into the two attorney offices and tried dismantling the computers. He made some more of a mess as he continued his search for valuables. In the third office, he actually took a pair of scissors and cut the cords that connect the monitors to the computers. He then wrapped the two monitors in that office in a brown hooded-sweatjacket and took them into the secretary/senior paralegal office. That's where we found them.
He then probably headed down to my office, stopping at the supply cabinet outside my office where he rifled through the supplies, spilling many of them onto the floor. In my office, he took almost all of the loose change I keep in a dish on my desk (hey, how the hell am I going to pay for that afternoon package of Skittles, asshole!), and he opened a cabinet where I keep all of my funding binders (the government contracts, correspondence, data reports). These binders have often given me the urge to want to flee the building, but I bet that it was right around this time that the cop cars, responding to the triggered alarm system, finally appeared, because lame-ass burglar dude bolted out of the legal area towards the back of the agency, where he escaped via a roof hatch in the ceiling. I've worked in that office for seven years and never knew that there was a roof hatch.
Well, when I arrived at the office at around 8:30 am on Saturday, surveying all of the damage was a bit shocking. Here's a tip for all of you asiring legal directors out there: staring at a ransacked office is about the only time that it is OK to say "that dirty motherfucker" in front of your executive director.
The good news is that, with the exception of about three dollars in loose change from my office, it does not appear that he got away with anything. Some of our computers might be damaged (at the very least we've lost those two monitors), but insurance will cover that kind of loss, and all of our data/records are on a network so the hardware is completely fungible. He made a mess, particularly in the secretary/senior paralegal office, but clean-up should not take much more than an hour or two on Tuesday morning. Bozo the burglar left behind his sweatjacket (duh) and no doubt a bunch of fingerprints, so I'm optimistic that the police have something to work with. And we have a good story to tell.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Booooooooook!
The real thing -- Slipping, in it's hardcovered glory -- arrived the other day. It won't be in the bookstores for another four weeks, but Bloomsbury sent Cathleen a copy from the first batch they received from the printer (she'll get a handful more "author's copies" soon as well). The cover looks excellent, the blue a bit deeper and more metallic looking than that in the advance copies, and pieces of added text are well-placed.
If you take it and wack it on your head, as I have done, it feels like a real book.
If you take it and wack it on your head, as I have done, it feels like a real book.
Swab the Rick, matey
Ever since the summer of 2005, in the wake of an attack in the London subway system, the NYPD has been conducting "random" searches of travelers' bags at the entranceways to various NYC subway stations. When the policy was first announced, I still retained a shred of naivete about the protections afforded by the US Constitution, and I figured that there was no way that this practice would stand judicial scrutiny. Well, in a "post-9/11 world" there is no measure of civil rights that can't stand to be sacrificed at the altar of "making us safe" and so here we are, three years into the bag-searching regime.
I live near one of the larger subway stations in the city -- the Atlantic Ave/Pacific Street Station-- and I pass through it twice every day during the week. At least once a week during the morning rush the police are set up at the Pacific Street entrance (where I enter) conducting random bag searches. For three years I've walked by them, never quite knowing how to play the situation. Somewhat to my relief, I think, after three years I remain irked by the trappings of a police state, but I never figured out in my mind how much my consternation should influence my conduct if I were to be stopped for a search.
Two mornings ago I entered the subway station with Dinosaur Jr's Start Choppin' blaring through my iPod headphones. Sometimes, depending on the song and my mood, I likes to hear the music loud. A police officer stood in front of the turnstiles, and as I walked towards him he beckoned me towards a table on the left, behind which stood three more officers. One of them said something to me, but I was still fumbling with my iPod in an attempt to turn it off. I placed my bag on the table and defiantly stepped backwards. You want to search my bag, open it your damn self. Instead of searching the contents of my bag, however, the police officer took a small piece of paper, swabbed it across the top of my bag a couple of times, and then stuck the paper into a small machine that resembled a small credit card machine that you might find in a bodega or a dry cleaners. They were testing my bag for explosives.
Did the high-tech screening make it any less invasive? Was the relatively de minimis extent of the inconvenience supposed to render me more complacent? Is anyone feeling safer? Was anyone feeling that unsafe to begin with?
Scared into war, and eventually war becomes the state of being. Scared into giving away some civil rights, and eventually the absence of civil rights becomes the state of being.
Oh there's no goin back to that, I'm so numb, can't even react.
I live near one of the larger subway stations in the city -- the Atlantic Ave/Pacific Street Station-- and I pass through it twice every day during the week. At least once a week during the morning rush the police are set up at the Pacific Street entrance (where I enter) conducting random bag searches. For three years I've walked by them, never quite knowing how to play the situation. Somewhat to my relief, I think, after three years I remain irked by the trappings of a police state, but I never figured out in my mind how much my consternation should influence my conduct if I were to be stopped for a search.
Two mornings ago I entered the subway station with Dinosaur Jr's Start Choppin' blaring through my iPod headphones. Sometimes, depending on the song and my mood, I likes to hear the music loud. A police officer stood in front of the turnstiles, and as I walked towards him he beckoned me towards a table on the left, behind which stood three more officers. One of them said something to me, but I was still fumbling with my iPod in an attempt to turn it off. I placed my bag on the table and defiantly stepped backwards. You want to search my bag, open it your damn self. Instead of searching the contents of my bag, however, the police officer took a small piece of paper, swabbed it across the top of my bag a couple of times, and then stuck the paper into a small machine that resembled a small credit card machine that you might find in a bodega or a dry cleaners. They were testing my bag for explosives.
Did the high-tech screening make it any less invasive? Was the relatively de minimis extent of the inconvenience supposed to render me more complacent? Is anyone feeling safer? Was anyone feeling that unsafe to begin with?
Scared into war, and eventually war becomes the state of being. Scared into giving away some civil rights, and eventually the absence of civil rights becomes the state of being.
Oh there's no goin back to that, I'm so numb, can't even react.
Monday, May 12, 2008
Transporta-zen
For my daily commute home, I take a Metro North train from Fordham to Grand Central; there I take the Grand Central - Times Square Shuttle (the "S" train), and then the N or Q home from Times Square. The S train, as the full name implies, runs exclusively between Grand Central and Times Square, with three trains operating pretty much every two minutes during rush hour. At these times, the S is always packed like a cattle car because, as it turns out, many a New Yorker passes between Grand Central and Times Square during the business day. I have learned, however, that if you miss one S train, you'll really only have to wait two minutes for the next one -- and I mean two minutes for it to be fully-boarded and leave. It is not a long wait.
Nevertheless, commuters who would think twice before hastening their pace to save their mothers from an oncoming vehicle suddenly feel compelled to break into a full sprint in order to make it into whatever S train they see sitting in the station. I have seen fat people, old ladies, groups of friends holding hands...all running for their lives to make it into a train in order to avoid the two-minute wait for the next one. I have seen folks of all sorts shove parts of their bodies (or their children's bodies -- once I saw someone propel a baby stroller forward as a door jam) or their possessions into the closing train doors in order to buy themselves a spot on a train. Before today, I had never seen an elderly Tibetan monk make that effort. To his credit, when the train left him standing on the platform, he didn't curse or yell. He barely looked anguished. That's called being at peace with yourself.
Nevertheless, commuters who would think twice before hastening their pace to save their mothers from an oncoming vehicle suddenly feel compelled to break into a full sprint in order to make it into whatever S train they see sitting in the station. I have seen fat people, old ladies, groups of friends holding hands...all running for their lives to make it into a train in order to avoid the two-minute wait for the next one. I have seen folks of all sorts shove parts of their bodies (or their children's bodies -- once I saw someone propel a baby stroller forward as a door jam) or their possessions into the closing train doors in order to buy themselves a spot on a train. Before today, I had never seen an elderly Tibetan monk make that effort. To his credit, when the train left him standing on the platform, he didn't curse or yell. He barely looked anguished. That's called being at peace with yourself.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Half, as fast as I could have imagined
Ran the Brooklyn Half-Marathon this past Saturday. Having trained at a 9-minute per mile pace, my goal was to finish in under two hours (9 minute pace translates into 1 hour and almost 58 minutes). I am proud to report that I finished in 1:53:26, which is an 8:39 pace per mile. I placed 2,553rd out of 5,832 participants. But the race, obviously, wasn't about me against the other 5,831 runners; it was about me against the 3,279 slobs that finished behind me. No, I mean it was about me running against myself, challenging myself to do my best.
The morning had not started so well -- I made it to the subway platform as the N train was pulling out, meaning I'd have to wait for more than ten minutes early on a Saturday morning for the next train to arrive. I made it out to Coney Island about 20 minutes before racetime, had to put my bag on a bus for pickup later at the finish, had to use the port-a-potty and then get in the race corrals. The lines at the potties were long, and I basically had enough time to do about a quarter of my normal stretching routine before the gun sounded, and I was able to slip into the race corrals as the horde began to move forward.
The first 2 1/2 miles were along (and double-back again) the Coney Island boardwalk. That was cool. I mean, the weather was chilly, but the sight of the beach and ocean to the immediate left, the creaking and thumping of the wood underneath you, the occasional sand hazard to run through or around...a whole different "race" experience. The beginnings of these long races are always so cool...everyone's in a good mood, optimistic about what lies ahead; there's a folksy comaraderie. Did I spell comaraderie right? It looks funny. In any event, I was at exactly nine minutes at the first mile marker, which surprised me, as the crowd was thick and although I was attempting to weave through the thick parts to get some sort of pace going, I assumed I'd be behind the mark until we hit the more open streets. I was still on pace at two miles, and by the fourth mile marker, on Ocean Parkway, I was slightly ahead of pace. Interesting.
Ocean Parkway is a grand boulevard of Brooklyn -- large median down the center, beautiful homes line the sides. A friend who had run the Brooklyn Half in the past had joked that the Ocean Parkway run is frustrating because the cross-streets are all lettered in reverse alphabetical order ("Avenue Z" and then "Avenue Y" and so on), and so you spend time trying to figure out what number letter "M" is in order to calculate how much longer you have until you make it to Prospect Park. Lo and behold, by the middle of the alphabet I was stumped as to how much more Ocean Parkway lay ahead of me.
By the sixth or seventh mile I was more than a full minute ahead of my nine-minute pace goal. On the one hand, this was great. On the other hand, I was concerned about gassing out at the end. The last four miles of the run are in hilly Prospect Park, and I did not want to be the idiot who tanked with a mile to go. But I was feeling exceptionally well. Without a running partner for the first time in a long race (you know, of the two other long races I've ever run), I was able to focus exclusively on my running, making myself relax my body, maintain a pace and good form on hills, etc.
I entered Prospect Park at the nine-mile marker, and I was about a minute and a half ahead. Now I could turn on the psychological games: this was my park, where I run all the time...get out of my way, shitheads. I know, it's a bit simple and juvenile, but I'm not a very sophisticated runner. When I hit the big hill at the northern end of the park, I was practically laughing to myself -- I own this hill! Around the bend to the west side of the park where I knew that Cathleen, Max, Eliza and my mom would be waiting for me near the Third Street entrance...and then I saw them from about 50 yards away. Such a lift! I kissed them all, and then ran away with a new bounce in my step. Literally. I had about two miles to go, and I was psyched. Down the big hill at the southwest corner, and then the last big hill (in the unchartered, for me, interior part of the park). As I ascended the final hill of the run, some guy on the side shouted out "the 13-mile marker is right around the corner." That's all I needed; I bolted into a full-out sprint to the end, weaving in and around folks ahead of me as a I flew to the finish line.
I often use the experience of the two marathons I've run in other contexts: the mental determination I employed in those runs to overcome physical pain and fatigue in order to finish...it is helpful to look back and know that I have the ability to dig deep in the face of challenges. The half-marathon -- a dramatically more humane and less punishing distance to run -- provides me with something different. Not sure yet what that is, perhaps something about what it takes to exceed a goal, but I'm filing away the 1:53:26 of moments that were that race, and they'll be there when I want or need to use them.
The morning had not started so well -- I made it to the subway platform as the N train was pulling out, meaning I'd have to wait for more than ten minutes early on a Saturday morning for the next train to arrive. I made it out to Coney Island about 20 minutes before racetime, had to put my bag on a bus for pickup later at the finish, had to use the port-a-potty and then get in the race corrals. The lines at the potties were long, and I basically had enough time to do about a quarter of my normal stretching routine before the gun sounded, and I was able to slip into the race corrals as the horde began to move forward.
The first 2 1/2 miles were along (and double-back again) the Coney Island boardwalk. That was cool. I mean, the weather was chilly, but the sight of the beach and ocean to the immediate left, the creaking and thumping of the wood underneath you, the occasional sand hazard to run through or around...a whole different "race" experience. The beginnings of these long races are always so cool...everyone's in a good mood, optimistic about what lies ahead; there's a folksy comaraderie. Did I spell comaraderie right? It looks funny. In any event, I was at exactly nine minutes at the first mile marker, which surprised me, as the crowd was thick and although I was attempting to weave through the thick parts to get some sort of pace going, I assumed I'd be behind the mark until we hit the more open streets. I was still on pace at two miles, and by the fourth mile marker, on Ocean Parkway, I was slightly ahead of pace. Interesting.
Ocean Parkway is a grand boulevard of Brooklyn -- large median down the center, beautiful homes line the sides. A friend who had run the Brooklyn Half in the past had joked that the Ocean Parkway run is frustrating because the cross-streets are all lettered in reverse alphabetical order ("Avenue Z" and then "Avenue Y" and so on), and so you spend time trying to figure out what number letter "M" is in order to calculate how much longer you have until you make it to Prospect Park. Lo and behold, by the middle of the alphabet I was stumped as to how much more Ocean Parkway lay ahead of me.
By the sixth or seventh mile I was more than a full minute ahead of my nine-minute pace goal. On the one hand, this was great. On the other hand, I was concerned about gassing out at the end. The last four miles of the run are in hilly Prospect Park, and I did not want to be the idiot who tanked with a mile to go. But I was feeling exceptionally well. Without a running partner for the first time in a long race (you know, of the two other long races I've ever run), I was able to focus exclusively on my running, making myself relax my body, maintain a pace and good form on hills, etc.
I entered Prospect Park at the nine-mile marker, and I was about a minute and a half ahead. Now I could turn on the psychological games: this was my park, where I run all the time...get out of my way, shitheads. I know, it's a bit simple and juvenile, but I'm not a very sophisticated runner. When I hit the big hill at the northern end of the park, I was practically laughing to myself -- I own this hill! Around the bend to the west side of the park where I knew that Cathleen, Max, Eliza and my mom would be waiting for me near the Third Street entrance...and then I saw them from about 50 yards away. Such a lift! I kissed them all, and then ran away with a new bounce in my step. Literally. I had about two miles to go, and I was psyched. Down the big hill at the southwest corner, and then the last big hill (in the unchartered, for me, interior part of the park). As I ascended the final hill of the run, some guy on the side shouted out "the 13-mile marker is right around the corner." That's all I needed; I bolted into a full-out sprint to the end, weaving in and around folks ahead of me as a I flew to the finish line.
I often use the experience of the two marathons I've run in other contexts: the mental determination I employed in those runs to overcome physical pain and fatigue in order to finish...it is helpful to look back and know that I have the ability to dig deep in the face of challenges. The half-marathon -- a dramatically more humane and less punishing distance to run -- provides me with something different. Not sure yet what that is, perhaps something about what it takes to exceed a goal, but I'm filing away the 1:53:26 of moments that were that race, and they'll be there when I want or need to use them.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Hold My Hand
In March 1996 Cathleen and I flew down to West Palm Beach, visited my grandmother (Kahn), and then spent a few days in the Keys. Of the four or five nights we spent in the Keys, we dined twice at a little restaurant called Mangrove Mamas. It was the lone structure on Sugarloaf Key to have survived The Hurricane of 1919, or something like that. Half of the building lacked a roof, and the other half looked like it was a shanty that had been assembled with pieces of scrap earlier that afternoon. The seafood was out of this world, their Key Lime Pie had been voted "Best in the Keys" by the Miami Herald for several years running, and the place had a magical ambience that I can still feel when I think about it. The first night that we ate there we were directed to the bar while we waited for a table to open up. We drank beers out of mason jars while listening to two guys play guitar, and whenever I hear Hootie and the Blowfish's "Hold My Hand," I am immediately transported back to that place. If the sum of one's life boils down to a collection of moments, for whatever reason -- youth, the first vacation with the woman I loved, the beer -- that was one of my moments.
I had another moment today. On the heels of a productive weekend at home (built shelves in the livingroom for our TV components; assembled shelving unit for storage room and organized a portion of the mountain of crap in there; grilled a whole fish Saturday night), the four of us were pretty spent by the end of the day. Helen (with Grace) came over for a playdate with Eliza, and Max was finding himself the object of nobody's attention and none too happy about it. So I dragged him out to run an errand with me. We drove to the local CVS for soap, shampoo, sunscreen and some other odds and ends. As we walked around the store, I was holding his hand, a not unusual arrangement when we are out. This time, however, as we walked through the aisles of the store, I felt Max blithely stroking the inside of my palm with his thumb. Comforting himself, connecting with me, or just enjoying the texture of my hand...I'll never know. But when we approached the cashier to pay for our items, it took a great deal of willpower for me to let go.
I had another moment today. On the heels of a productive weekend at home (built shelves in the livingroom for our TV components; assembled shelving unit for storage room and organized a portion of the mountain of crap in there; grilled a whole fish Saturday night), the four of us were pretty spent by the end of the day. Helen (with Grace) came over for a playdate with Eliza, and Max was finding himself the object of nobody's attention and none too happy about it. So I dragged him out to run an errand with me. We drove to the local CVS for soap, shampoo, sunscreen and some other odds and ends. As we walked around the store, I was holding his hand, a not unusual arrangement when we are out. This time, however, as we walked through the aisles of the store, I felt Max blithely stroking the inside of my palm with his thumb. Comforting himself, connecting with me, or just enjoying the texture of my hand...I'll never know. But when we approached the cashier to pay for our items, it took a great deal of willpower for me to let go.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)