Even if happy = boring, I'll take it.

Tomorrow is the first of July.  Somehow, 2009 is half over.

My "blog daily" challenge of the spring went relatively well; 36 posts in 52 days. The problem -- which isn't actually a problem, the way I look at it -- is that I'm too busy enjoying my life to write about it. And as Tolstoy imparted with Anna Karenina, happy characters make for boring stories.  There are dozens of things I have a vague desire to write about, but as I don't know that I'll ever get to them, here is a list. Friends, family, if you ever want a conversation starter, ask me about something here.

1. Thirtieth Birthday Extravaganza
2. Sweet Melissa
3. The Brooklyn Bridge
4. Bryant Park
5. Subway Station art
6. Subway Stations as art
7. Atlas at 3am (the statue at Rockefeller Center)
8. 24-hour delivery service
9. nights brighter than noon
10. Coney Island -- there's a beach in NYC!
11. The Empire State Building as anchor
12. Subway Series talk on the subways
13. Parks as "backyards" and "front yards" and picnic grounds and playtime
14. The documentary/photography exhibit that *someone* needs to make about the feet of New Yorkers
15. The plazas of midtown
16. Stonewall
17. The first second date I've agreed to in years
18. The unending politeness and flattery of flower sellers and fruit marketeers
19. Classically Trained, Practically Broke
20. Theatrical master classes
21. The Botanical Gardens
22. The sheer wealth of amazingly smart, funny, engaging people who want to be friends
23. The Brooklyn Flea
24. How neighborhood tragedy makes the world both larger and smaller, and how everyone touched grows closer
25. Joining the Finance Committee of the new GHFC
26. Dancing like an idiot in the street at 2 in the morning, to big band blaring from the windows of a church in my neighborhood
27. How everyone with an iPod seems to love blaring Regina Spektor into their eardrums on a Sunday morning

Pretty awesome list, if I do say so!

First published at NYC to the Nines

What's your favorite love song?

So I'm building a new iTunes playlist.  My last few have been punk-focused, show-tunes focused, NYC-focused, and then a collection of melancholy jazz -- it's time for something happier, more positive.

My favorite love song of all time is actually a recording that isn't available -- the first time Judy Garland sang the Almost Like Being in Love (Lerner and Loewe)/This Can't Be Love (Rodgers and Hart) medley; was at a private party for MGM and she was about 22, I think. The recording was shown as part of a "from the vaults of MGM" documentary I saw the last time I was stuck at a hotel in Texas -- the most incredible, controlled, hurricane of vocal power I've heard, with all the raw emotional punch that pre-rehab Judy ever delivered. (The Capitol Years recordings don't begin to touch it.)

If I had to pick my favorite within my collection, I'd point to k.d. lang's cover of Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah on her album Hymns of the 49th Parallel. Again, the sheer power of perfectly-controlled pipes -- this time soaring lightly above piano and strings -- just knocks me flat.  Click here to listen and judge for yourself.

That said, tell me your favorite love song. Who wrote it? Who performs the version you like best? What made you fall in love with it? Comments are open -- let loose. (I'm hoping some of your choices will inspire me to buy new music.  I have a couple of gift cards burning holes in my proverbial pockets.)

First published at NYC to the Nines

"expanding upon the neighbor concept"

Official word just came in from Current Landlord:

1. Awesome Leasing Agent *is* buying the building. He shall temporarily be known as Awesome Soon-to-be-Landlord.
2. Once the paperwork for sale is filed with the bank and there's no threat of an additional appraisal, landscaping work on the back garden will begin; Mrs. NextDoor, who just had her yard completed by the company Current Landlord and Awesome Soon-to-be-Landlord have retained, is an attorney handling the paperwork and designating when moving forward with the landscape architects is a go. (And she likes my attempts at homey prettiness with potted plants in the front courtyard.)
3. New 3rd floor tenant, another single professional gal, is moving in today.  She's clearly stressed and frazzled and too warm at the moment, but is also personable and sweet-seeming.
4. Annoying 2nd floor tenants who come and go at 4am and smoke cheap cigarettes on the stoop outside my window will be leaving at summer's end when their lease expires.
5. Sweet basement tenant will be serving as resident caretaker once the landscaping is done and upkeep = sweeping courtyards and stoop and setting out the trash every week.

I'll also get a chance to meet the guys who will be doing the work on the backyard -- they're coming in after work one night this week to change out the window gate so that I can fit an air conditioner into the bedroom -- and will hear their side of the appraisal on how the backyard will look, how fast the work will go, etc.

It's a miniature neighborhood! It's as fun and open and welcoming as I had hoped! And two days outside with no rain or icy wind have allowed me to actually *meet* my not-of-the-building neighbors and hang with the friendliness.

SO EXCITING!

Lowe's delivery is coming this week (air conditioner, circulating fan, dustbuster). I've missed out on the CSA but am enjoying Farmer's Marketing and making semi-weekly trips to Whole Foods Paycheck. I'm making friends independent from work and intentionally exposing myself to things I've not seen or done before (roller skating with Roller Derby girls? Totally new and outside my unccordinated-geek comfort zone!). And having an absolute ball.

Sure, there are things that would make life a little easier, a little more pleasant, but on the whole this experiment is succeeding beyond my expectations. Whee!

First published at TheNines

Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds

Unless the "couriers" are stationery buildings, in which case all bets are off.

There are many Post Office buildings in New York City. They are, almost universally, poorly labeled and understaffed or not staffed at all. In the former case, it means lines in excess of an hour (during a typical business day, 7 to 7 -- you can imagine that I've not been free during those hours in May and June); in the latter, kiosks are available with no or poor instructions and no ability to ask for assistance with non-refundable purchases.

Coming from a small town - where I have been served by the same postal workers since I first mailed a letter by myself when I was 8 - this was at first frustrating and then absolutely infuriating. I am not at all a fan of "let's increase the price of a service and then make the client wait on herself and call it a benefit."  I expect -- and am willing to pay for -- cordial, helpful assistance. I do not give my business to for-profit (or non-profit) businesses that fail in this regard, and I am appalled by and ashamed of my country every time our government offices so fail. (I've been a government drone service provider - I've earned my right to be appalled and ashamed.)) Can I be a crusader for cordiality? There are days when I'm sure that would be the greatest service I could provide to humanity.

On Thursday, after 8 weeks of searching, I finally found a Post Office that functions as such. I'm walking around midtown after work, trying to find one of the three Post Office buildings that my colleagues have told me exist.  I've got my Blackberry GoogleMaps Application with 8 USPS locations noted on it with explicit addresses, and am wandering around like a (frustrated) idiot, searching for the ubiquitous red, white, and blue eagle logo. At each of the first three addresses I stopped and asked a shop proprietor if there was a Post Office at their address, as indicated by Google and my friends and was told "no," or "I don't know" and gruffly dismissed. Despairing of ever mailing a set of thank-you postcards that are now 6 weeks over due and a set of delayed Birthday and Father's Day packages, I gave up the vicinity of 31st street and headed North to 34th.

Yes, that 34th Street, in that part of the city. Home of the gigantic, overwhelmingly stocked Macy's Department Store noted from the Miracle On movie. My App assured me that there was a USPS office at  151 W 34th St, so I circled the block twice, seeing nothing but doors embossed with the Macy's logo and script. Feeling undoubtedly foolish, I stepped in and asked the concierge if there was, by chance, a Post Office kiosk somewhere in the area. "9th Floor, Miss, the elevator just behind you will take you up."

I could have cried. Or kissed him.

Instead I followed his instructions, and stepped off the elevator at the 9th floor, walked down a long corridor through the furniture section, past the tailors, past the wig salon, and into a small, rather dingy nook at the back of the store, with a three-bay, recessed-window service desk staffed by four laughing, smiling people in USPS uniforms, and no line of customers. Melinda was happy to assist me with priority mail packages, Forever stamps, and appropriate postage for my off-weight post cards, and sent me merrily on my way to a little side table to affix the adhesives and then popped them into the out-going bin for me.

Delightful, friendly people clearly made happy by their ability to assist me from their unassuming little nook tucked away in the back of a glamorous, imposing building. I will never understand why such help is hard to find, when everything about it makes life easier and happier for everyone involved. As my email tag line quote from George Elliot reads, "What do we live for but to make life less difficult for each other?" I firmly and absolutely believe this. Maybe it's my background of providing service in areas where people are generally sick, afraid or anxiously frustrated when they seek my assistance (surgery and web support freak people out to similar degrees, it seems), but I can't imagine a situation in the world where a service can't be doubly improved by a smile, a willingness to listen, and firmly spoken instructions or a gentle apology when necessary. Am I seriously alone in this?

Regardless, the trials and tribulations of mailing packages and cards is done, and I have found my preferred office for other such needs. (I should note that Macy's is likely to benefit from this, as I'll be far more likely to purchase gifts at the same address where I can ship them from!)

I've noted on my calendar that I should start planning for Christmas at Columbus Day.

First published at NYC to the Nines

Running, Week 1: Day 1

After much hemming and hawing, anxiety and indecision, I've elected to try the Couch-to-5K beginner's program from coolrunning.com. Again.

Pros:

• An infinitely portable fitness regime
• Exercise which promotes strength, agility, and endurance
• Exercise that develops lean muscle and focuses on my problematic lower half (since I *sit* at a desk for 10-12 hours a day)
• Whole-body engagement that demands focused attention and forces the conscious mind to relax and be quiet

Cons:

• I am a klutz. Tripping and falling face-first into something - or someone - is more likely for me than the average human being
• I have never learned to run properly. Scratch that - I learned to run improperly (pointed toes; hip-rotating, side-arc, short steps; long, light, bounding strides) from ballet training begun when I was 2, and never learned to correct it. Which means that I now move like a fat, graceless ballerina when I lace up running shoes.

Once I set aside vanity and pride the pros far outweigh the cons, so 96 days from now I will be in good enough shape to run 5 kilometers without stopping. Racing doesn't interest me at all, but I might sign up for a post-October 1 5K just to ensure that I stick to the plan.

96 Days from "right now" is accurate because I completed my first run this morning. I woke up at quarter after 5, my mind full of "get up, get dressed, go run" rather than "you bloody idiot, your website sucks, figure out how to fix it," which is the work problem I've been agonizing over every morning for the last two weeks. I confess, the change of pace was itself a relief. I grabbed my iPod and armband, pressed play on Robert Ullrey's "podcasts for running: week 1" episode, and hit the pavement.

• First, I had my flooded-with-early-sunlight neighborhood and park to myself at that hour. I felt like Sky Masterson of Guys and Dolls, singing My Time of Day.
• Second, running (and walking) on packed earth paths is so much more pleasant than walking on concrete; my knees and ankles are very grateful.
• Third, hills are hard, and running down safely is actually more difficult than running up.

Before the 7th 60-second running segment, Robert speaks on the podcast and says "at this point you should be feeling the effects of your running, but should not be feeling tired or out of breath." If he'd been anywhere in my immediate vicinity, I would have punched him.

That said, even though I was dragging tail by the time I made it back to my apartment, it was absolutely worthwhile, and I am looking forward to Sunday morning. I'm at work a full hour earlier than usual, am only now sitting down to my computer (I usually put in an hour at home before before getting ready for the day), and feel more awake and alert than I have in ages. Add in the fact that it finally feels like summer in New York and I'm wearing a cute little dress and sandals, and it's Friday, and I have plans to see the Stonewall Exhibit at the NYPL tonight, and it's already an amazing day.

Yay, running!

First published at NYC to the Nines

To rise from the rubble

I have been struggling for the last 48 hours to write something meaningful about the collapse of 493 Myrtle Avenue in Fort Greene, but am at a loss.  One building in a row, improperly maintained over time and possibly weakened when a neighboring building was demolished (likely to make way for further development), collapsed on Sunday afternoon -- damaging the building next to it to a point where it is now undergoing controlled demolition, and those removals have structurally weakened the next (Third) in line, to a degree where it, to, may have to be taken down. An entire block of buildings is inhabitable, unsafe to a degree that they are being guarded by Emergency Responders and no one is allowed inside to retrieve personal belongings -- including pets.

This has happened in my neighborhood, a block further East than my yoga studio, a few blocks down and on the opposite side of the street from Green in BKLYN, which I love so much. I've walked and cycled past that block, made polite, neighborly conversation.  My neighbors who lived there have lost everything -- one tenant was fortunate enough to have an album of wedding photographs salvaged by a Fireman, just before the hoses were turned onto the rubble to prevent asbestos in the ash and dust of masonry from spreading throughout the area on the wind.

Donations are being collected for the tenants who now have nothing.  Fundraisers and gatherings of support and solidarity and just plain neighborliness are being organized.

The whole situation -- man-made tragedy? -- is a metaphor for community, in a way that is more raw and devastating than any simple words put down on a page.

First published at NYC to the Nines

I will never buy bread again

Last weekend, while catching up on posts from Lifehacker, I found myself reading a nine-page article over at Mother Earth News about bread-baking.

For all that I'm a bit of an ecogeek, MEN is a little to crunchy for me -- whenver I thumb through the pags I feel like I should be attempting to live completely off the grid in a solar-powered house with independent water supply and all of the resources I could ever need grown/harvested/made from scratch. Which is not a bad thing, until you count on the fact that I tend to romanticize such images into pretty pastorals that don't involve an overly huge amount of effort. Or blood. So, it's a magazine I tend not to read unless an article is expressly recommended. This time, though, the link provided was life-alteringly amazing and simplifying and WONDERFUL.

Five Minutes a Day for Fresh-Baked Bread: Discover this ridiculously easy -- and cheap! -- technique that revolutionizes home bread baking really is as fantastic as it sounds. The article outlines a system of baking bread whereby you spend 15 minutes of prep once a week, followed by 5 minutes of dough-manipulation and a passive hour of resting/baking time every day to come up with fresh, hot, melt-in-your-mouth delicious fresh bread whenever you want it. I already bake my own bread most weeks -- a single or double loaf on a Sunday morning in and around laundry and housecleaning (before yoga) -- but this new method is so bloody easy I've baked four loaves this week on various days and will never go back.

I spent about 25 minutes on Sunday finding and pulling the bowl I wanted out of storage (the interior of my crockery cooker, actually), rearranging the fridge to accommodate such a huge dish, following the "assembly" instructions, and cleaning up the flour I spilled on the flour.  Without the extra steps necessitated by storing most of my large kitchen pieces six feet above my head, 15 minutes was a more-than-generous time allotment.

Assembly:

1. Pour 3 cups of lukewarm water into a bowl with a non-airtight lid
2. Add 1-1⁄2 tbsp granulated yeast and 1-1⁄2 tbsp coarse kosher or sea salt to the water, stir so that it begins to dissolve.
3. Add 6 cups (level but not packed) unsifted, unbleached, all-purpose white flour to the bowl, stirring with a wooden spoon until well-mixed. The dough appears really shaggy -- if you keep stirring, ribbons of dough trail behind the spoon, pulling into a rough ball in the center of the bowl which doesn't hold it's shape for more than a moment.

At that point, the assembly is done. Cover the bowl and leave dough on the counter for a couple of hours.  (I went out for coffee with friends and came back four hours later -- no harm done.) Then put the bowl in the fridge where it can live for two weeks before spoiling -- pull out a hunk of dough, form it into a loaf, and bake as desired. This would be where I deviated from MEN's suggestions -- I spent about 10 minutes of effort, rather than their five.

1. After overnight refrigeration, pull out a hunk of dough -- about the size of a fist, since I live by myself.  Add flour, shape it into a ball, place it on a floured board, and leave it for twenty minutes.
2. Come back to the ball, which is now softening all over the board, and flatten it, kneading for about a minute, then reforming it into shape. Flour the surface well and slash the top for expansion.
3. Preheat the oven to 450 degrees, oil the inside of a cast iron dutch oven, and place the pot in the oven to preheat.
4. When the oven indicates that temperature has been reached (a solid 20 minutes for me -- 450 is HOT), open the door, pull out the rack, and plop the dough ball into the middle of the heated dutch oven. Push the rack back into the space, close the door, and set the timer for 30 minutes. (Deviation = no pizza stone, no flour, no cornmeal, no water-in-the-broiler for steaming. I'm not overly fond of sourdough flavor, which this loaf has due to the slow rise, and my method removes most of that flavor.)

After thirty minutes, the loaf was perfectly browned and expanded.  I pulled the pot out of the oven and lifted the loaf out with a pair of wooden spoons, onto a rack. My self-control lasted about three minutes (while I turned off the oven, poured boiling water into the pot, washed my hands, and made sure the kitchen was still neat-and-clean) before I snatched up the knife and sliced off a piece of steamy, delicious, pure-carb goodness.

The bread is amazingly perfect. It's tasty with no adornment but can stand up to butter, honey, peanut butter, jam, bruschetta, tapenade, and any number of sandwich fixings. It is quite possibly the best-tasting thing I have ever made -- and I fell for the delectable deliciousness five days out of six this week (two nights after work, two very early mornings, and one rainy Saturday afternoon).

Eco-deliverance aside, I'll leave the cows and chickens and goats to my beloved family at the Schaghticoke Hobby Farm and bake this bread in my sized-for-one New York City apartment. Every single day.

Phoebe, I think this is an awesome solution to grading hell!

First published at NYC to the Nines

"You're not good, you're not bad, you're just nice."

Why is it that the days when I don't have time to eat are those that I wake up with my brain on serious overdrive?

Last night, while waiting for the clock to switch over to 1am as I do every Monday in June, I put a Zenhabits minimizing/simplification tip to work, clearing off all of the surfaces in my apartment. Counters, tables, ledges, shelves, mantles - everything got pulled off, cleared out, organized, and placed into an out-of-sight home or reset into an uncluttered state. I also reshaped the living room furniture into a more welcoming arrangement. I won't say "rearranged" as changing the angle of the couch and moving it over 3 feet hardly constitutes rearranging, but you get the idea. Little things can make a big difference for clarity and comfort.

While working, I had my stereo playing Into the Woods on endless repeat, as is my wont with music in general. Five hours of the same set of tracks burns even the musical frills into my brain, let alone lyrics and melody and interludes. As I think more realistically about writing the book for Little Red, I've become obsessed with ensuring that I can add something to our cultural understanding of the story - and Sondheim pretty much epitomizes modern musical theatre.

I'm confident that Red - whom I've begun to refer to as Helen - has a really interesting story when viewed as a passive character. Which sounds completely backwards, I know, but conceptually I'm reminded of Dreiser's Carrie and I think there's something fascinating about a woman who fundamentally lacks courage and is eventually, slowly, in measured steps, forced to confront the reason why. (Whether she then acts courageously or not is irrelevant, the point of interest is the questioning.)

The puzzle for me, though, is Wolf. What is the story behind the predator, what drives him? If it's really casual disregard for others as he moves to satiate his own hunger, that leaves him a monster - boring. Sondheim makes us laugh at Mr. Wolf and the Princes, but even he doesn't question their fundamental desire to possess. Looking to other lore, even reluctant dark creatures (*cough*Remus Lupin*cough*), while working to overcome their violently consuming natures, don't exactly question their origins - we've been content to stick with the Monster theme.

So, what's the humanizing factor to Wolf? Is there a point at which we can examine his desire in a way that's divorced from questions of morality? Tell a compassionate story without reducing him to a helpless victim at the mercy of his baser nature?

I think that's an exciting, fascinating premise. I just don't know if it's possible. And while I'd love to bend every mental fiber to wrestle with it for the next however long, I'm off to an onPhilanthropy conference - about which I'm not complaining, since fantastic minds and tech communities were a huge draw for me in considering the NYC move, but I do wish there was some space in my head for both.

First published at NYC to the Nines

A Summer Recipe Staple

A common attitude in summer is one of languid repose.  Working hard, playing hard, soaking up sun, enjoying every moment -- when the sun begins to dip toward the horizon and cool breezes  waft through sunbaked rooms, the last thing on my mind is cooking. Until my stomach begins to tell me otherwise.

Tonight's dinner is one of my very favorite warm weather staples -- curreid rice soup. Serve it with freshly sliced fruits (apricots and peaches now) or a green salad with mild cheese and a cup of hot, sweet chai.

1. Finely chop one small yellow onion. In a medium saucepan, cook the onion in 1 tbsp oil for 2 minutes.
2. Add 1 tsp minced ginger, 2 tsp curry powder and 1/4 tsp cayenne pepper to the pot; stir well and cook for another minute. (If you're sensitive to spicy dishes, omit the Cayenne.)
   
3. Add 1 cup rice, 2 14-1/2 oz cans of unsweetened coconut milk, a can-full of water, and a few twists of freshly ground sea salt to the pot.  Stir well and cover. When the contents begin to boil, reduce heat to simmer and set the timer for 20 minutes.
4. When done, remove from heat and stir in 1 tbsp lemon juice. Ladle into bowls, garnish with fresh cilantro, and serve.

Note: This soup will keep for several days in the fridge as moist curried rice, absorbing all of the liquid. It works well for leftovers with stir-fried vegetables or shish kabobs.

First published at NYC to the Nines

"What joy to see you again"

It's an odd day here in Fort Greene -- brightly warm in one moment with icy winds and gray skies the next.  One of those days perfectly suitable for necessary tasks like mending clothes, unpacking things that were stuffed into "deal with it later" drawers, packaging up the recycling, etc.

While I've been working I've been paring down and listening to my library of podcasts. Marc Gunn is one of my favorite independent artists -- he runs a number of Celtic-based websites and programmes that I enjoy, including the Renaissance Festival Podcast. I've never been to Faire, a state of existence I'd like to correct this season, but I'm quite happy to listen to the music as I bustle about my days.  Today's hour-long show is the "Best of 2008" highlight, which features the top five musical acts of the year.

In fifth place for 2008 is Empty Hats with their rendition of Kilkelly, Ireland -- a ballad that never fails to break my heart just a little.

Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 20, my dear and loving son John
Your good friend the schoolmaster Pat McNamara's so good
As to write these words down
Your brothers have all gone to find work in England
The house is so empty and sad
The crop of potatoes is sorely infected
A third to a half of them bad
And your sister Brigid and Patrick O'Donnell
Are going to be married in June
Your mother says not to work too hard
And be sure to come on home soon

Kilkelly, Ireland, 1830,  my dear and loving son John
Hello to your missus and to your 4 children
May they grow healthy and strong
Michael has got in a wee bit of trouble
I suppose he never will learn
Because of the dampness there's no turf to speak of
And now we have nothing to burn
And Brigid is happy you named a child for her
You know she has six of her own
You say you found work but you don't say what kind
Or when you're coming home

Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 40, dear Michael and John, my sons
I'm sorry to give you the very sad news
Your mother's passed on
We buried her at the church in Kilkelly
Your brothers and Brigid were there
You don't have to worry she died very quickly
Remember her in your prayers
And it's so good to hear that Michael's returning
With money he's sure to buy land
For the crop has been poor and the people are selling
Any price that they can

Kilkelly, Ireland, 18 and 50, my dear and loving son John
I suppose that I must be close on eighty
It's thirty years since you've gone
Because of all of the money you sent me
I'm still living out on my own
Michael has built himself a fine house
And Brigid's daughters have grown
And thank you for sending your family portrait
They're lovely young women and men
You say you might even come for a visit
What joy to see you again

Kilkelly, Ireland, 1852, my dear brother John
I'm sorry I didn't write sooner to tell you father is gone
He was living with Brigid, she said he was cheerful
And healthy right down to the end
You should have seen him play with
The grandchildren of Pat McNamara your friend
And we buried him alongside of mother
Down at the Kilkelly churchyard
He was a strong and a feisty old man
Considering his life was so hard
And it's funny the way he kept talking about you
He called for you at the end
Oh why don't you think about coming to visit
We'd all love to see you again

Subscribe to the (free) podcast with iTunes to hear this track (show #105, 6:20) and more from fantastic indie artists.

First published at NYC to the Nines

Cycle Dreams

Mom and Dad, I'm fine. I feel like an idiot and I'm a little scared, but I'm fine.

One of the things I was most excited about when I decided to make the move to NYC was the opportunity presented to become a cyclist. A cyclist of the Copenhagen Cycle Chic, No Impact Man, Old Bike Blog, Velo Liberte variety. I dreamed of using only my human energy harnessed by a couple of wheels and a horizontal pulley to get anywhere I needed to go. The office? Cute restaurant for a dinner date? The library and farmer's market and shoe store? The beach on a pre-sunrise jaunt? All were part of the dream.

I moved to Brooklyn, tracked down a gorgeously beautiful bicycle for sale (thanks again Erica!), and started to practice riding.  Out and about, no specific destination in mind, just relearning how to control the instrument.  Figuring out and memorizing and practicing hand signals. Testing how bicycle traffic patterns differ from those of automobiles. Remembering to use my bell to let pedestrians and drivers know that I exist. It's been really fun doing that, apart from a few directional mishaps (If I'm not the only person who can't figure out how to cycle onto and over the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridges, someone could make a mint by offering "duckling" cycle classes to teach new riders how to navigate the city.)

The problem is that with cycling, as with everything else, I overestimate my abilities.

Today, I planned my first ride into Manhattan -- over the bridge and into Chinatown for the all-afternoon Relay For Life.  I scoped the bridge in advance, sketched the map, verified any parts of the bike lane that would be under construction, packed my backpack with extra water, and headed out the door. Of course, I made yet another directional mistake while trying to ride onto the Manhattan Bridge and wound up partly up the on ramp for the BQE -- but I managed to backtrack while laughing at myself and making the drivers around me laugh (preferable to honking). I  tried the Brooklyn Bridge instead and successfully found my way onto the ramp -- thanks entirely to having walked across it Thursday night and realizing that the cycling entrance is in the middle of the road, rather than at either side.

Once on, riding over and off was a breeze, even considering how many tourists there are out on a Saturday. I got a little turned around in the Financial District since the angle of the roads off the Brooklyn Bridge is different than the Manhattan Bridge, and I didn't expect to be so far west.  Even then, I was able to orient myself rather quickly.  And then it started to rain.

A thinking person would have found a place with a bit of cover to pull over and stay dry. A self-preserving person would recognize that you don't throw more than one test at a time in front of a new cyclist, and unfamiliar streets, Manhattan traffic, and rain were just a little much altogether.  I was neither thinking nor self-preserving in that respect, and chose to keep riding toward Canal Street instead. And then I made the right-hand turn onto Canal Street.

I should pause to say that I can't stand Canal Street. I don't like kitsch. I am incredibly irritated by people who mill about in a space meant for walking and don't move. I am unreasonably irritated by the fact that I tower over 90% of the people on the street and can therefore see a way clear but no one will bloody move or get off their damn cell phones or stop hawking and haggling over trash. So I was very excited by the prospect of cycling along Canal and bypassing the irritation. I somehow forgot that the traffic is ridiculous. Stop and Go, Stop and Go. And that taxis swerve without notice into sections of the road that are reserved for pedestrians or, you know, cyclists.

Then the sky opened for *maybe* thirty seconds, and Mother Nature deluged. During which a cab driver cut me off with about four feet to spare and hit the brakes in order to pick up a passenger flagging him down.

If I were a more experienced cyclist, I might have had better control on slippery roads. If I were physically stronger, I might have been able to wrench my very heavy bike out of the way without an issue. I am neither of those things, and thus stopped in order to avoid running into the cab by doing what I do best -- falling over.

I was very smart: I fell away from traffic, and I pitched my body toward the back of the bike rather than the front. I was wearing long sleeves and a backpack and a helmet, and I wasn't going very fast at all because of the rain, so it was basically like sitting down on the ground very fast -- one good thing about having put on some weight over the last year is that my seat is quite well padded now. The puddle of water that I landed in was a bit of a break, too -- no scrapes or roadrash on my hands (and my arms were covered by my jacket). I jammed my right wrist (fingers are perfectly mobile, thumb moves around, arm doesn't hurt, the wrist is just a little swollen and aches) and scraped a shallow gouge on my leg where the bike pedal dragged across it. Crazy bike isn't even scratched.

The cab driver? Accepted his passenger and drove off. A whole bunch of people looked at me sitting in the road then struggling to stand up then brushing water out of my eyes and finding my glasses and picking up my bike, and then they looked away while I rinsed a bit of blood off of my leg with rain and limped over to the subway station elevator (thankfully just half a block away).

I am more shocked by the fact that no one on an incredibly busy pedestrian street responded to my accident than I am by the fact that I fell off my bike. (Considering how many idiot-klutz  injuries I've sustained over the years, the latter isn't really surprising at all.) I'm certified in CPR and emergency first response, and I've worked in hospitals since I was fourteen years old; I've seen all of the horrible 1980s videos about workplace safety, and all of the scenes where someone's lying in a pool of blood and a bunch of people are standing around staring and doing nothing.  I have never actually believed that could happen, that people could look at someone who was hurt and frightened and not step forward to offer comfort or assistance. If I'd been really hurt would anyone have noticed? Or cared?

I'm home now with my little scrapes all bandaged (with Neosporin, they'll probably be totally healed by Tuesday), my First Aid kit put away in the bathroom, typing left handed while my right sits on an ice pack; toting laundry out tomorrow will probably be a total pain, but I'm otherwise fine and healthy.

I'm feeling vulnerable in this very large place though -- which is new.

First published at NYC to the Nines

Soundtrack

I'm a big fan of world-building -- the idea of setting a story or sequence of stories in a universe that is so well drawn that it becomes a living thing with clear, distinct boundaries.  The Harry Potter universe is a terrific recent example -- Rowling created a world so imaginatively detailed that readers wanted to reach out and touch it, immerse themselves in it. Hardcore fans do just that, writing fanfiction to continue the stories the way they wish they existed, creating "art inspired by," filling YouTube and Vimeo and other video-catch-all sites with homages and flights of fancy.

The NCIS universe is one of these worlds that I love -- mysteries are a dime a dozen thanks to the whole "government investigative agency" shindig, populated by people who are well-developed with zany, funny, charming, realistic human characterizations, just enough military and political realism to hold it together while still being fanciful enough to remind me it's fiction.  Over the winter, the soundtrack to the show was released -- built as a supplement to the second half of season 6 and with the intention of inspiring the upcoming storylines.

I love the soundtrack, and it's inspired me to buy music from artists I previously hadn't listened to (namely Ministry, Nitzer Ebb, and Seether) and have since grown to adore. I'm not thrilled with the way these songs were incorporated into the episodes themselves (placements were heavy handed and distracted from the scenes they introduced, then were forgotten as viewers played "catch up", few if any elements from the tracks were laid down as background themes to underscore the initial placement, volume levels were completely bizarre) but I love the music itself, and the way they add to the NCIS universe.

Which is a long introduction for the fact that the Soundtrack Team is collecting feedback and input for a "volume II" (volumes three and four, actually, since the first ST was a dual-disc set). Personally, I'd want to see some Tony-centric music.  Constantly quoting classic films and failing to deliver suave lines like the guy he wishes he could be, I'd like to see some classic film score elements and crooner hits cut by edgier, slightly off-kilter bands and incorporated into his storyline. Although I don't know if that works better in my head than it might on film.

First published at NYC to the Nines

Why It's Dangerous to Ask My Opinion

Just before I moved to New York, my cousin Stacy sent me a note: "You know, we've never talked about this but your status updates on facebook have me curious; do you believe in God?" I've spent the last three months thinking about that question, trying to figure out how to answer it in a way that invites dialogue, or at least doesn't alienate 96% of the people I know.  Here goes nothing.

No, I do not believe in God in any way that I've understood any human beings or organized religious groups to define "God." I do not believe that there is some all-seeing, all-knowing presence in the universe that understands and cares about what happens to any of us as individuals. I do not believe there is a creator-being waiting to pronounce judgment on our lives or hopes or dreams or desires. I do not believe that any of the creation myths dreamt of, told, or written down by any society in the history of homo sapiens or homo sapiens sapiens (or homo neanderthalensis, for that matter) says as much about the origins of the world -- about our notions of God -- as they do about the societies and the people that dreamt of, told, or wrote them.

But in the grand scheme of this wondrous, gorgeous, vast, expansive life of which we can barely begin to scratch at the surface of understanding, I think that's the least important question that can be asked.

The important question, the one that I want every single person to answer whenever the topic of spirituality or faith or religion comes up, is What is Life?

For me, life is a gift --  a precious, temporary, wonderful, terrifying gift. Like any real gift, it comes without obligation. No requirement to bring a prettily-wrapped package in exchange, no order to display it on the mantle for the rest of eternity, no obligation to wear it and love it and pay homage to the giver for every moment of every day of the rest of one's existence. Here, here is this magical thing given to you, you who live; do with it what you will. I find that whether the gift is one of intention or one of chance is completely irrelevant to how I choose to use it.

If I did believe in God, if I knew beyond doubt that some almighty being had the power to give and take away  everything about me in a heartbeat, would I live better for the knowledge? Would I be a better person? Would I be more humble, more gracious, more selfless? Of course not. I'm an arrogant, too-smart-for-my-own-good pain in the ass -- I'd spend every heartbeat of my existence trying to suss out the agenda of that presence, to figure out what cosmic chess game I am but a pawn's player's pawn within, and I'm pretty sure the scope of playing politics with the morality of the cosmos would make my head explode.

The notion that there could be a God, that there's a powerful being looking out for us, that someone is out there waiting to reward us if we play the game right and smite us if we don't, offers me no comfort at all.

Life is beautiful and harsh. The earth, the universe, the cosmos has no obligation to be fair to humanity, there is nothing we can earn, nothing we can deserve, from this glorious place. In my opinion we have been given a gift -- we have no obligation to use it well and the giver, whether an isolated presence or the mere notion of chance, has no further obligation to us.

And that's where I think religion comes into play.  We humans are capable of greatness -- of fantastic feats of intelligence and strength, of love and faith, of bravery -- and can choose to use them for good or evil. So we developed -- in the small pockets of the world where humans first began to congregate and across the vast tracts of earth and space we cover today -- rulebooks and systems and explanations for how things work and for who we are and for how we ought to behave, to ensure that we are safe and cared for and loved. We work so hard to impose a sense of human fairness on a universe that owes us nothing, to make chance and opportunity and risk a little less scary. Sometimes the rules help us. Sometimes they don't.

Me, personally -- I don't need the rulebook. I don't need the Savior. I don't need the reward.

I do my best to live every day well, to treat people honestly, to love fully, to help where I'm needed when and how I can. I understand and accept and am grateful to experience that life, that day, that moment fully alive and open, trying my best to meet what might come with courage -- knowing that I can expect nothing of the universe but each single, momentous opportunity.

Is that enough? It's what I have. It's what I am. It's the gift I was given, and the one I offer in return.

First published at NYC to the Nines

Relay

Too tired to type much other than that, once again, Relay For Life was amazing. People of all ages and backgrounds coming together, dancing and laughing and crying and cheering together, fighting together and fundraising together and making a difference in the fight against cancer, Together.

Tomorrow I'll have highlights and photos and a long list of thank yous. For now, it's time to sleep and revel in the power of dreams realized.

Thank you!

First published at NYC to the Nines

I can only hope to be this articulate about hot-button issues that make my blood boil.

John Cole's "Time to Rethink Your Conscience"

First published at NYC to the Nines

"Vacation used to be a luxury, but in today's world it has become a necessity."

In July of 2005, I took a week-long vacation to the beach in Virginia, with my favorite family people. Apart from the start (with a horrendous car crash and several very anxious hours driving at break-neck speed to Rutgers University Hospital followed by a day of mom doped up on painkillers), the ten days were amazing and magical and wonderful and relaxing -- just what a vacation should be.

Since then I've enjoyed a great deal of time off, thanks to my terrifically generous benefits package ensures that I have access to more vacation days than I can ever use.  Trips for weddings, trips for new babies, trips to plan parties, time off for week-long home improvement projects, time off to collapse in a heap and sleep for three days straight -- but no treat times that were focused on simply enjoying the idea of "having nothing to do and all day to do it in."  Four years is a *really* long time to be focused just on all of the things that I should do.

So, four years and four weeks after that lovely, sandy, sun-kissed, beachy trip to Sandbridge Beach, I'll be embarking on my next vacation. Although, considering that I'm planning a Staycation in the coolest city in the world, "embark" is probably the wrong word.  'Salright -- I have 52 days to think of a better one!

The plan:

• Five days
  Monday-Friday = vacation, bookended weekends = the usual life-business of Farmer's Marketing and Librarying and Laundering and Housecleaning and Bread Baking and Ordinary-Plans-With-Friendsing.
• $100 Budget
  Since I'll be staycationing, no need to budget food, lodging, or special transportation. Thus, no money anxieties or need to save extra. (Not to mention, I like a challenge.)
• NO WORK
  I will be completely unplugged from work responsibilities. No email checking, no report-running, no let's call in just in casing.
• Itineraries
  I really like having a plan to follow -- keeps me from lying in bed all day, or sitting down at the computer to look up "just one thing" and noticing the clock ten hours later. Each day will have at least a general plan, put together from my list of Suggested Activities mentioned by readers. (Add as you will!) I'll spend the next several weeks of "looking forward to my vacation" by planning and diagramming and adding and culling and trimming into a ship-shape little itinerary.

I have a few early favorites for the Itinerary list: convincing my Dad to come into town for a Yankee game, catching Clay's summer independent, cycling the perimeter of Manhattan, picnicing in Prospect Park, partaking of a swing dance night somewhere in the city, planning at least one "Walking Brooklyn" tour from my new book, spending any horrifically hot and sticky (or wet and thunderstormy) afternoons at one of the millions of art museums in the city.

No idea how many of these will make the final cut, but imagining and dreaming and putting together will be equally as much fun as enjoying the week off.  For now, back to work.

*Author Unknown

First published at NYC to the Nines