Halloween horror in the men's room!

This afternoon, on the very day of Halloween, I had a chilling - nay, blood-curdling - experience in the men's room on the third floor. Don't ever, ever got there, lest you encounter this ghost, this demon, this phantasm who terrified me and shook me to my very core.

This afternoon, I went to the men's room, as I so often do, a little while after consuming my lunch. In this particular chamber there were three stalls. My fatal error was in selecting the middle one, although I had no choice: the last stall was out of service, but there was someone already occupying the middle stall. A stranger. Someone who will haunt me for the rest of my life....

I was going about my business as well as minding my business, as one does in the men's room. Yet this person next to me (was it a man or a devil? I shall never know!) was having a difficult time. His feet were moving and he was breathing erratically. It was weird. Then, after a moment's respite, he suddenly spoke. He said: "You can start ket glot ack to now ran, app toe kee rack." What? I froze. I had the slow comprehension you sense when you realize someone is speaking in another language, and you stop trying to piece together words in English. Then he said: "You know?"

I was the only person in there. I could hear him breathing next to me. I quickly wrapped up and left the stall. There had been a small puddle of water by the toilet (it had to have been water) so I discovered that I left a footprint behind me. I could see his feet moving behind the stall door, and I heard a toilet flush. I didn't want to have to face him - had he been talking to me? Was he on a phone somehow? A bead of sweat gathered on my brow. I could hear him opening the latch on the stall door as I pulled a towel out of the dispenser. I saw my footprint from the water all over the bathroom - I didn't want him to follow me. Thank God my shoes were nondescript. He cleared his throat and he started opening the door, but he was ensconced in shadow. Not daring to look back, I flung open the bathroom door and darted down the stairway. Who the hell was that? A poltergeist, a spirit, the ghost of a long-dead 1L? I raced down three flights of stairs and back into the safe anonymity of the library, hoping my footprints wouldn't lead the creature to me. There, in my carrel, weeping and convulsing, I composed this blog post.

So consider yourself warned - there is a ghoul in the third floor men's room, a ghoul who speaks in tongues and makes things very uncomfortable and awkward for other users of the bathroom. Can you imagine anything more horrifying, frightening and suspenseful than that? Dear reader, neither can I. Happy Halloween!

Mysterious city of mine

Tonight in Greenwich Village there is an odd, sweet smell in the air - it smells like maple syrup. Even among the exhaust and hot dogs and pizza and burritos and people and dogs and general squalor, somehow there is a scent of syrup riding on top of it all. Walking home tonight I looked down expecting to see some thick brown rivulets slowly meandering along the sidewalk, but nothing. I see nothing that could explain the aroma, but it's really pleasant.

Last week a fire in the subway station near my apartment shut down all the train lines on the west side and snarled up a morning commute for millions of people. There were more than ten fire trucks and ambulances glaring around the neighborhood, police tape blocking the walk, and on the news they showed great waves of green smoke billowing upward from the street grates. Green smoke one day, maple syrup the next. Easy come, easy go, I guess.

Women we love: Toni Braxton

A lot of people come up to me and ask, "Hey, MKD, if you could only listen to one rhythm and blues-style artist for the rest of your life, who would it be?" Well, there's an answer to that. "Listen," I reply to the people who ask me this. "You can keep your R. Kellys and Mariahs and Jill Scotts, even your Eric Benets, Musiqs, and Janet Jacksons. For me, there's only one." And that one is Toni Braxton.

Why is Toni Braxton the one? Let me count the ways. Her voice is husky and low, but with a great range. She peppers her music with "oohs" and "yeahs." The love she sings about is mature, passionate, angry, unrequited. She whoops. Her songs are written intelligently, with irony and confidence. Her songs are well-produced, and unlike many other singers, she is not afraid to ride the instrumentals for a minute or two. Her albums are interesting, not formulaic, yet her music fits squarely into a consistent, larger ouevre. She is continually having her heart broken.

She has a new album out, "Libra," and it's awesome. Her last album was a bit of a disappointment, but this album has the smoothness, the pain, the beauty, the sex appeal that are her hallmarks. It helped me get through last week, which was characterized mostly by computer issues and law school malaise.

Now I'd like to offer an Amazon.com/"American Psycho" style review of Toni's albums, for those not in the know (and to delay the inevitable start of my Torts homework). This is about to get dorky, real fast:

Toni Braxton blew onto the scene in the early 1990s, riding a wave of mushy Babyface-produced ballads. But despite the synthetic beats and velvety orchestrations, the songs were catchy and lyrically nimble: "Seven Whole Days," "Another Sad Love Song." The inescapable, respiratory anthem, "Breathe Again." The daughter of a preacher from Landover, Maryland, Toni was not the cutest singer in the world with her short hair, but that's ok.

1996 brought a big album, "Secrets," featuring the ubiqitious Diane Warren ode to grammatical liberalism, "Unbreak My Heart." She also had long hair now, which was a big improvement. This album included "You're Making Me High," my favorite Toni song ever, produced by Bryce Wilson, with an awesome intro, great bridge, and slightly dirty lyrics. This title was the inspiration for the small sign I made when I got to see Toni perform on Broadway in 2003 in the title role of Aida. [TONI / You Make /Me High] She enjoyed it and blew me kisses, clasping her hands in the empathetic symbol of "thank you, please sleep with me."

Her best album, "The Heat," came out in 2000, featuring the Rodney Jerkins track "He Wasn't Man Enough for Me," the acoustic masterpiece "Fairy Tale," and the pure erotic bliss of "Maybe." "Heat" marked Toni's departure from Babyface's shadow. She and her husband, Keri Lewis of Mint Condition, produced this album and gave it a sound that was contemporary, lively, and true. This album had legs, and I listened to it regularly for about - oh, five years now.

"More Than A Woman," Toni's 2003 follow-up, was problematic. The album's title came from a song from the recently deceased singer Aaliyah. Why she did this is unclear to me. (The only time Toni and Aaliyah collaborated, as far as I know, was when Toni vamped it up in a memorial video after she died. Everyone else looked somber and mournful, and there's Toni, caressing herself. Awkward.) There was an ill-suited but effective Neptunes track, "Hit the Freeway," and some wretched hip hop collaborations. But the album's suite of ballads had some great numbers - "Rock Me, Roll Me," featuring full orchestration and a smooth coda, and the Jerkins track "Do You Remember When," as well as "Tell Me," a sly nod to her aural predecessor, Anita Baker.

And now "Libra," which I've been listening to for two weeks. This album is strong. She is on a new label and has something to prove (not unlike Mariah, last spring). "Take This Ring" is a pretty blatant derivation of Amerie's "1 Thing," both by one of the best producers out there, Rich Harrison, but it is awesome. The tight syncopation of the chorus, the relentless neo-gogo drumbeat, and the jagged edges of the background vocals make for a supremely interesting song. Other highlights include the last track, an acoustic number called "Shadowless" that was recorded live, and "Finally," in which she shouts out herself by citing all of her song titles in a look back at her romantic past.

Anyways, I am glad to see Toni is doing well. She has a voice like no other. I've learned a lot about love, music, singing, and sex from Toni. I like singing her songs late at night because then I can really wallow in the low notes. She's a fun chick. Frankly, she's everything rhythm and blues should be.

Under pressure

To continue the string of weird, ambiguous things that have happened to me lately, on Monday I went to Brooklyn to go to a dinner party with some of my shiny new law school friends. We all got tipsy off of wine, which is acceptable, because it's a dinner. But after the meal, as everyone is relaxing and this writer is ready to start heading back, is it following proper etiquette for a guest to leave the apartment and come back with more alcohol? Like, say, 40 oz bottles of malt liquor, one of which was designated for yours truly?

The night continued, and a group of the guys - young, fratty, sort of decent, mostly well-intentioned guys - were intent on getting me plastered. I said, "But it's Monday," or, "I have a memo due tomorrow," but they were relentless. Every time we took a swig, they said my name: "To Mike D---!" And they would all clink. And stupidly, like a lemming with low tolerance and a paper due, I would drink. The thing is, I can't stand that appellation of my name. My skin crawled every time they said it. But I let them do it.

I drank about 36 of the 40 included ounces. Why? I didn't need it or want it. It was a Monday night, I had work to do, I was in an outer borough. Later all the camaraderie and hearty bonhomie evaporated when I poured the last few ounces of my drink down the sink. Then I was a bitch, a pussy, a loser. Hey, thanks guys. That's what friends are for.

Ever since then I've been mad at myself for succumbing to the peer pressure. Why did I let those dumbasses make me drink? What was I doing? And to have that idiotic toast each time - "To Mike D---!" - it made me angry and shameful. I thought of Tom Wolfe's novel, where the main character's name is her own mantra and reassurance, and now my name, for that evening, to me, represents stupidity, weakness, and useless, pointless, wasted debauchery. I am too old to fall for that shit and too smart to waste my time with people who would do me that way.

At lunch today they resurrected the idea and clinked their water bottles and soda cans. "To Mike D---!" So I left the table and went to the library. Fuck them. If that night was a moment of weakness, it has left me with some clarity as far as putting myself in a different orbit at school. And clarity is the name of the game.

Yet, in this week of verbal assaults, peer pressure, and unexpected intoxication, there has been one great thing -- and her name is Toni Braxton. More on that topic soon.

Another wacky night at Sapphire

Friday night, at Sapphire Lounge with L and James. "Drop it like it's hot, drop it like it's hot." We are standing near the mirror by the wall (a favorite spot, I'm realizing) taking in the scene. There is a couple dancing crazily in front of us. She is wearing like this sundress or something, and she is arrhythmically jerking her body into all sorts of angles and contortions. Her head is thrashing around and her arms dart away from her body. At times she play-punches the guy she's with, who is big and sort of beefy and sweating through his oxford shirt. He keeps a loose grip on her hands and dances around her, the pair making a wide circular arc that clears part of the dance floor. People are openly gawking at the pair, at their lack of rhythm and inhibition, at the wide sweep they are cutting through the dancing crowd. James wonders if they are on drugs. They are like junkies from Talbots.

Standing by the wall, I am holding my elbow out to prevent the guy from crashing into me. His body contacts my elbow once, twice, three times. You'd think he would adjust his trajectory or try to avoid the person obviously behind him. He hits my elbow again. Then he turns around and looks at me and says:

"Back the fuck up, you fuckin faggot."

What. What. What. What. I am aghast. The last time I was called a faggot was when I was thirteen, by some asshole in junior high. What. What. I'm not wrong! He's the one bumping into me! What! WHAT!

I don't say anything and just gape at him. The couple continues dancing. I think about things I could have done - I could have kneed him in the balls maybe, or slugged him? Or I could have told his girlfriend some wicked lie about him? And then run like hell? I don't know, I've never been in a fight before. I tried to laugh it off and we stayed for a while but I was bothered. Watching them dance out there, totally unaware of the shitstorm they kicked up in my head. I was livid.

We didn't stay much longer. On the way back I felt defeated, and found myself reliving the scenario again and again, going through all the different things I could have done or said. I was mouthing the words. I had dark fantasies of cut lips and blackened eyes, public brawls and squad cars. But I felt defeated nonetheless.

Postscript: Karmic sympathy - one good thing, though, is that a genuine black person gave me some respect for my dancing ability. And tonight at the movie theatre I found $11 on the ground. That helps in a way.

Pensive/Life lessons with Martha

Every day to get to school I walk two blocks south to the subway station. I ride the A train uptown - 14, 34, 42, 59 - and then walk four blocks or so to my school on 62nd Street and Ninth Avenue. On the way up to school in the mornings, amid the commuters and the guys hawking free newspapers and the men asking for money, I find myself asking these questions:

Why am I going to law school?
Why am I going to Fordham law school? I never even heard of it until I moved here.
Why did I leave my job?
How did I end up here (New York City, law school, this subway car)?
Who are these people I go to school with? Do I belong with them, am I one of them?
Why again am I in law school?
When exactly did I decide to go to law school? Like, fifteen minutes before orientation started?
Am I willing to give everything it takes to make law review and be at the top and thrive there, or am I willing to step out of that race in order to be happy with the I've cobbled together already?
Am I willing to step aside from anything?
Am I willing to take a different path from the others, when that puts me out someplace by myself and I don't have the safety of a crowd to comfort me?
And if I do take that lone path, can I do it without second-guessing myself?
What will I do after this is over? Where will I go?

When I think about these things, it's like pulling bricks out of a wall, deconstructing my life until there is nothing but a pile of rubble. And then the order I think I've created is slapped back down into chaos. I don't think anything could withstand the kind of interrogation I'm willing to put myself through (for whatever reason), but even when all of these external issues are on the ground below me (school, job, apartment) there are still the strong and tensile relationships binding me to my life (L, my family, my friends). If the choices I have made post-college form a brick wall that can be chipped and broken apart, the relationships form a web behind it that I couldn't break even if I tried. Sometimes I feel like my life has been this aimless, erratic flight ever since college. At times I feel like I've spent too much time in school, especially when I consider that of the six years after college, I will have been in school for four of them.

When does it become clear? Does it ever? Do these questions ever abate?

I'm not depressed or anything, just pensive. Spending all my days at the law school, reading the books they tell me to and thinking about the topics they assign, I wonder what exactly it is that I'm doing. My life right now, as much as I enjoy it on one level, seems comically and irredeemably random much of the time.

I told one of my new law school friends my strategy for answering questions in the class, and then I heard it again from the hapless Shawn just before she got booted from The Apprentice: Martha and now I wonder if it is the way everyone stumbles through adulthood, faking it 'til you make it.

The weekend

The computer situation is sort of resolved. Luckily I was planning on returning home this weekend, so I brought my empty husk of a laptop back down and turned it over to the IT guy my dad works with. By the end of the weekend, he had somehow magically transmitted my data to my dad's old laptop, which I brought back with me. I use this loaner for about a month, and in the meantime we mail my original laptop back to Dell so they can fix the hard drive. I wanted to make a Terri Schiavo comment there, but I abstained.

It was an awesome trip home. My sister came up too, of her own volition, and the entire time she gave very strong signals that she is slowly learning to pull her head out of her butt and act like a cool adult person. So that was exciting. We watched "National Treasure," which is a cheesy Da Vinci code of a movie about the Declaration of Independence, the Freemasons, and Nicolas Cage, in his finest work since "Captain Corelli's Mandolin." We visited the new mall. Did you know that Victoria' s Secret has shed its previously classy image and is now going for a "Sexiest Store on Earth" motif, complete with black walls and pink neon? It looked like a brothel at Disneyland. I don't know how I felt about that. It was awkward walking by it next to my parents, I can tell you that.

So that was my weekend. I am trying to post more regularly, and this happened to be on my mind. Seacrest out.

Disastrous

You are concerned about the safety of your computer, considering it is now the home of all of your law school notes and briefs, and so this morning you of course assent to to the latest Windows update. And you are also concerned that your antivirus and firewall protection seems conspicuously obsolete, as no helpful prompts ever appear to encourage you to update them. So you decide to shell out $40 for the latest Norton Antivirus. After all, what's $40 when you're living on the government's dime anyhow?

You begin to install Norton right before your morning torts class. Something is wrong - the screen is frozen and an error box has appeared - fatal error - the mouse is not responding - so you restart. When you restart it is as if you have opened a door into the wrong room. Your icons have been replaced with uniform blank boxes. You cannot open any files, any programs. Somehow, in this fog of uselessness and utter confusion, you are able to access the internet.

You spend two hours of class wracked with nerves, sweating. You hastily take out a notebook to take notes, but you can't focus. You hastily scrawl a note: "My computer died - should I stay or go try to fix it?" but you don't know who to show it to. You stay. You can't restore it, you can't work in safe mode, you can't access the twenty-odd documents that are the sum of your nascent law school career. At one point in class your arm starts shaking. You think of what you will say if you are called on. Once, in class, your computer emits a loud and broken beep and many people turn to look at you. A death knell.

After class you run to the tech center and they can't help you. You need to reinstall Windows, apparently, but your files should be ok, and until then you are stuck with a thousand-dollar paperweight. You eat lunch in ten minutes before class starts. Your body is anxious and exhausted from worrying. In a fit of inspiration you realize that you can email your notes to yourself, so you do that - you'll be ok.

People were talking about you and your dying computer today - you heard your name in the cafeteria. You left law school today feeling low, low in the dirt, stressed and discombobulated. You needed a drink, you almost needed a cigarette. Your new goal over the weekend is to restore your computer.

Thank God you spent $40 on Norton Antivirus to avoid any debilitating problems with your laptop.

Last boat to America

Tonight L and I went on of them sunset cruises around Manhattan: two hours in a boat, meandering around the southern tip of the island as the sun goes down and the city twinkles back to life. I got us these tickets for her birthday a few months ago, and I thought this would be a romantic, studly evening. Wine would be served, the website said. There would be cheese and snacks.

Well, there was no wine. Nor was there cheese. There was an open snack bar, though, and a woman selling programs and Statue of Liberty foam crowns. And there were 85 Asian tourists as well as a smattering of Europeans, other miscellaneous tourists from other countries like the Midwest, and a few New Yorkers who had clearly gotten on the wrong boat. Right as we left the dock, the announcer (Paul, who regaled us with a two-hour lecture and a helpful tutorial on tipping practices) pointed out the other boats across the pier - the ones with sleek lines, the ones with tinted windows and provocative curves. Those were the dinner and dancing boats, the ones we should have been on. But they were too expensive. So instead we spent a romantic evening on Toot Toot the Ferryboat, moonlighting as a night cruise from its usual duty of shuffling bored Staten Island workers to the city.

But that was all right. It was awesome. A beautiful night, chilly, with a good woman at my side. I almost fell asleep, but that was natural given the conditions and time of day. The city was so beautiful at night - the buildings offering their own mosaics of light, the water a wine-dark mirror reflecting it all. Very romantic, very Gatsby in a way. Not quite the casanova moment I had hoped for, but when the lecturer stopped talking and you could focus on the lapping of the waves against the side of the boat and the distant twinkling of flashbulbs from the top of the Empire State Building, the night gained an unexpected charm of its own.

Women we love: Amy Poehler

I've been thinking a lot about Amy Poehler lately: I think she's the new Will Ferrell. Amy has been on SNL for a few years and I think that right now, in the absence of a true comic alpha male, she has become the dominant force on the show. She's in nearly all the sketches. She can play it straight or go for the laughs. She is the woman behind one of the best new characters, Kaitlin, the hapless tween (right up there with Starquisha and Debbie Downer). She does it all. She is the glue that holds the show together - petite, blonde, shapely blue-eyed glue, y'all.

When I was taking improv classes at the UCB I saw Amy a few times in different shows, and she was the most endearing thing on two legs. She's funny, smart, and good-looking. She can do a lot of accents, she's good with prop work. One of the only lines I can remember from an improv show was when she was playing a wacky detective and described her technique as "sensalytical." I know improv stories don't translate well, but I almost peed myself at the time.

So that's that. I love Amy Poehler and I think she is the alpha and omega of Saturday Night Live right now. That's all I have to say - I just wanted to put this out there to pander to her and write about some happier things.

My friend Lea

My friend Lea died one year ago today. Last year it was a Friday. The Tuesday before we had eaten lunch with her, and that afternoon she had a stroke. My boss and I went to the hospital and we saw her wheeled through a corridor - she looked pale and withered, it was such a grim and unforgettable sight. That night I went to my boss' house and helped her kids with their homework while she made dinner, and then I walked home in the rain and wept in the dark. Nothing really changed over the next few days - Lea did not regain consciousness and it kept raining. They said that even if she did wake up, she had lost her language skills. This, for a woman who had been a professor of English and a poet. She thrived on words, on grammar, on the fine points of our language, like no one else.

On friday morning I came in late to work, because I had to pick up a tuxedo for a big banquet that night (a banquet to which Lea had dedicated a great deal of time and effort). I breezed into the office, tux in hand, and went back to my office. Tara came in and told me I should sit down. I said no, immediately knowing why she wanted me to sit and also being irritated that she was being so stereotypical. "Just tell me," I said as I reached up to hang the tuxedo. She told me Lea had died that morning, and I dropped the tux and it crumpled into a pile on the floor. I squatted down there and stayed for a minute and then hugged Tara. "It's ok to cry," she said. "I know," I said. She was talking like a Hallmark card.

I went to see my boss who had to keep doing banquet planning, even though she was devastated, and we couldn't even talk about anything. We just had to keep moving forward. That day I wept in my office a bit but that was all. And that day it stopped raining for the first time all week, since she had slipped into wherever she was.

That night, after the banquet, after everything, I walked home with my tux in a bag and cried as I walked. L came down and took care of me that night, and I felt utterly broken and defenseless. I slept in her arms and I woke up at some point and we made love, and oddly enough I thought of Lea at the time and felt that it was good - this was the most alive I could be, and I wanted to honor Lea's memory by living.

I think of her all the time still, and we kept Lea's spirit with us through the rest of the year. I dreamt of her once and felt such a sense of peace when I woke up. I was able to say goodbye and speak to her - in the dream I was an inconsolable mess, and she was calm and friendly, warm, vibrant, happy. It was the goodbye I wanted.

So now it's been a year. The weirdest thing, maybe the saddest thing (certainly the dumbest), is that for her memorial, someone forgot to proofread the program. Instead of noting the date of her death October 1, 2004, it was listed as October 1, 2005. And now here we are. One year later and: I remember her voice, I remember her friendship and gentleness, I remember the sense of unfairness at her sudden departure. She walked a rough road - mistreated by men, ravaged by illness, aged before her time. But she was a kindred spirit to me in some ways - a reader, a lover of the Delaware shore, a woman who embraced the city as her adoptive home. I think of her a lot and maybe that's only because death places those we miss in high relief, but she was a friend to me and she knew a lot about me.

The summer before she died, Lea sent me and my boss a postcard from Cape Henlopen, where she and her sisters had gone for vacation. It read:

Hello Lavinia and Michael,

We are camping about a mile from this breakwater. Gorgeous days, great campfire meals, star studded evenings. We are in paradise. Michael, I've been collecting info for you on the young and hip life around here.

I may never return, so carry on! Going for a swim now.

Ciao, Lea

After school special

I went to go eat dinner with a bunch of law school buddies last night, over at someone's studio near Lincoln Center. The baked ziti was good, the wine was free-flowing. We were sitting around his living room and somebody pointed out what was on the bottom shelf of the coffee table - a plastic baggie, a lighter, a small box of blunts...

"Stems and seeds, stems and seeds," someone was saying. Mentally I was trying to remember what that meant, because I knew I had heard that before, but I wasn't quite - OH MY GOD. MARIJUANA.

I had never been in the same room as it before. It lay there limply - there wasn't much left. Everyone started talking about this apparently epic night last week, when they returned from a solid six hours of boozing to get high and watch movies. Two people started comparing dealers. "Do you know Andres?" "Do you know Turkey?" Somebody mentioned some other drug they had ingested that night. They talked about pot dates.

I was shocked. I didn't say anything about my narcotically-virginal self, or how I had to ask my parents what pot smelled like. I didn't say anything about how when I first moved here I would nearly break into a run to get away from the dealers in Washington Square Park, who walk up to you with a smooth yet insistent whisper, "Smoke? Smoke?" At dinner we somehow avoided comparative drugs stories, which I was grateful for, but it was a very odd night. The whole time I was preparing some kind of Nancy Reagan/Just Say No quip to avoid the issue.

I'm going to school with a bunch of casual potheads... maybe it will be that much easier to make law review. I don't know. It was weird and funny and kind of sad. Mostly shocking.

New Yorker Festival 2005

Oh, beloved, dusty blog of mine. How I neglect you. Can you forgive me for these ten-day bouts of silence? Can you? Good. Thanks. Sorry.

This weekend was the New Yorker Festival, what has become my favorite event in the Manhattan calendar. The first time I went was in 2003 - L and I saw Michael Cunningham, Jhumpa Lahiri (be still my heart), Dave Eggers, and others giving readings across town. It was an amazing night - hopping on trains to get from one venue to the next, getting lost downtown, stealing a flyer advertising the festival that I had framed and hung on my wall, and finally seeing my fellow New Yorker compatriots. I didn't get to go to any events last year because of work obligations, but this weekend L and I have been out at full force.

Last night we saw two readings over at the Directors Guild. First up was Michael Chabon and Stephen King. Chabon read the first chapter of his upcoming novel, a Jewish hard-boiled crime fiction/noir type deal. It did not keep my interest - I actually fell asleep at the reading, which was embarassing. But with Stephen King I was back on board - I've always loved his books, and he read an excerpt that was suspenseful and scary. He is so down to earth and unpretentious about his craft.

Next up was Zadie Smith and Jonathan Franzen. Zadie read a chunk of her new novel and decked it out with a variety of accents (her native English, American, Jamaican, Nigerian). It was awesome, very funny and winsome, and she was surprisingly pretty. Very tall, and she walked very purposefully up to the podium. Her voice was deeper and more rugged than I thought it would be. Jonathan Franzen read part of his latest New Yorker essay, "My Bird Problem," encompassing his passion for birding, global warming, and the collapse of his marriage. He was incredibly droll and tentative, almost embarassed by his presence. I loved this essay so much - it was one that I read aloud to James while we were driving through Tennessee or Mississippi - and to hear the author recite it, knowing what was ahead, was wonderful. Although I think I read it just as well as he did. I felt such affection and affinity with him - he reminded me of me in a way, with his smarts and neuroses and use of humor as an attempt to bind the two (sorry for the ego there). During the questions and answers, the two were an utterly charming pair - Franzen had no patience for foolish questions and deflected them well. They talked about the challenges of writing, the struggle to find the right tone, fiction versus non-, and their feelings about poetry ("Sometimes we worry that the novel will become like poetry in a few years," Franzen said. He talked about how much work it took to slog through the typical New Yorker poem - he is so right). It was chilly in the auditorium, and Jonathan gave Zadie his blazer to wear. It was very titillating for the crowd, in an odd way, seeing these two people we loved getting along so well. He loved her generosity and affection for her characters, too. The best question of the night was from a young woman who talked bout how Jonathan's work doesn't provide answers to the big questions, but does at least try to illuminate the arguments. She said reading him was like not knowing math and doing the homework with somebody who didn't know math either - you weren't sure about things, but at least you knew someone understood you.

Boy, do I love Franzen. I want to be like him (in a limited way) and I want to write like him. His essays inspire me to make this blog (and the rest of my writing) something I can be proud of.

Today L and I went to see David Remnick (another lit-hero of mine) interview John Updike. It was interesting, but it was still listening to an old man ramble for 90 minutes. I can only take so much. He talked about his influences, how he got started, his own ambiguity to New York. He said people who live here travel in very narrow routes, which makes sense. He actually saw the towers fall on September 11th, and he said the way the collapsed in on themselves and shimmied it down - it was like "a silk dress falling off a woman." Beautiful. He said to write at least an hour day if you want to make it. He was very smart and spry and erudite. I think in hindsight my appreciation for that conversation will grow.

So that's my New Yorker festival. I love it so much. If anyone is interested, they're blogging the hell out of it over at Beatrice. To be among other readers is such a delight. I love this city.

Concert review: Coldplay

Tonight L and I went to the Coldplay concert at Madison Square Garden. It was so good I couldn’t stand it. Clapping my hands and shifting my weight back and forth was not enough to physically express my happiness. But I’m not one of those guys who raises their arms over their heads and just soaks it all in like Jesus at a Def Leppard concert. So I just clapped and swayed and wooed like most other people.

They had an amazing light board behind them. They opened with “Square One” and immediately the board lit up in white behind them with a string of four numbers running along with it. What will happen when it reaches zero, I absently wondered as the band’s silhouettes crossed the screen. Well, let me tell you: the clock flattens to 0000, the chorus of the song kicks in and the lights on the lightboard and around the stage explode with color – the whole place is lit up and moving, green, red, blue, bursting from the stage out to us, the band may not even exist anymore, it’s just this kinetic explosion of sight and sound that announces to 15,000 people that something is happening. And that set the tone for the rest of the two-hour set. Most of the music was from the new album, which I loved for the total rock-arena anthem tracks, where we used hand gestures to follow the notes up the scale and sing along to them like this: “Bup be doo be doo boo dee boo boo” (that’s the opening line from “Talk”). Except for a few of their glacially paced, funeral dirge, evolution-is-passing-you-by ballads, I was in hog heaven.

Not to mention the fact that Gwyneth Paltrow and precocious wee Apple were sitting about 50 feet from us, and that when Chris Martin ventured into the audience he ended up about 35 feet from us, and that basically I couldn’t have asked for better seats or a better companion or a better experience. And do I regret spending 35 dollars I don’t have on a concert t-shirt that I’m almost afraid to wear? No, I do not. Not for the music, not for the emotion, not for the sight of the whitest crowd in Manhattan dancing poorly and without shame on a Tuesday night.

Women we love: Kelly Clarkson

I've been thinking a lot about a certain American Idol winner lately. There has been a spate of articles about how Kelly Clarkson has improbably become Cool, riding the wave of her new Avril-esque hits, "Since U Been Gone" and "Behind These Hazel Eyes." (Such awesome titles! Obviously only total squares and poindexters write out "you," and who doesn't love those people who can't just say they have brown eyes or green eyes, no no - those bitches are hazel.) Kelly Clarkson has always had a certain appeal to me, from the sharp consonants of her name to her humble origins as a reality show contestant. I remember watching the show and rooting for her from her first throaty renditions of Aretha Franklin numbers. Not only was she talented, but she seemed sweet and self-effacing, and not that dumb for a pop singer. Then she had her simpering Simon Cowell ballads, and that wretched movie, which made the nation uncomfortable. And now, an album later, she's gone blonde and Hollywood and is sweeping up VMAs, hopping around the stage all wet and sopping and prancing to the beat of her own song in bare feet.

The best thing, though, is her songs - they are catchy and she has a great range, starting low on the verses and swooping up on the choruses, then riding a crest of adlibs back to her gospelish roots before the song shudders to a finish, spent and breathless. The bridges of her songs are always the best, always, with their attitude and vocal altitude and clear, declarative sentences. Swallow me then spit me out. Shut your mouth I just can't take it. Her two songs are a bit contradictory, sure, but the woman remains the same. And that's what we - me and the rest of America and the recently-converted musico-cultural elite - love.

Sunday bloody Sunday

Today I ran a half-marathon in Central Park. It was unpleasant, comically bad, horrible to the point of just being funny. When I finished I was soaking wet - my clothes, my body. Maybe it was from sweat, maybe it was the intermittent rain, maybe it was from the hoses they had spraying water along the way. As I crossed the finish line, collecting my celebratory water, gatorade, and popsicle, my feet squelched in my shoes and I grimly looked forward to a lengthy battle with foot mold. I ran into James, who ran it as well, and he looked like he had been hiding in the bayou and breathing through reeds for the last three weeks - we were all filthy and wet and grimy.

The actual course was two loops around Central Park, plus a bonus mile. I tried to stay positive, but "You can do it!" eventually became, "You have to do it. You can't tell people you failed. Don't humiliate yourself, don't shame the family." Cowed, I pressed on, availing myself of the rest stops and trying, honestly to not throw up for the last five miles. My mantra, besides "Don't shame the family," was "Make it a burp, make it a burp."

In the humidity and dampness, trying to jockey for position among improbably swift old people and apparently bionic professional runners, I tried to distract myself. "Wow, you're in law school. What do you think of that?" and "How does it feel to be engaged? To L?" But I was only fooling myself - I spent the entire race thinking about how far I had come, what percentage of the race I had completed, whether I had to repeat this section of the course, what hills were coming up, when the water station would appear, how quickly I could comfortably run, what my mile time was.... It was horrible, like computing obscure baseball statistics for two hours.

But the point is, I did it and I am proud of myself. It was as painful as the Great Saunter back in May, but it wasn't as pleasant to endure. After this race, my catalog of injuries includes: a painfully sore knee, blisters on my right foot, and chafed and bloodied ankles. The backs of my socks and sneakers were bloody when the race finished. Think about that. It was like the Passion of the Listless Runner out there. No good.

And yet -- doing it gave me a sense of satisfaction I rarely find nowadays, a sense of physical pride; I took one of the best naps ever afterwards (the most fun I've had in my bed alone); the rest of the day was nonchalant and pleasant; and I will sleep like a rock tonight. I think, after the pain fades away, I will look forward to doing this again in Staten Island in October.

And also: I have another reading coming up in three weeks, on September 19. I have to learn how to write again. Topics to discuss: the engagement, law school, the southern trip, Six Flags, this race. I have to learn to write.

Get set

Law School starts in ten hours from now. I can't believe it. I hope I like everyone, I hope they like me. I hope I don't get too rabbity and competitive when some people memorize flow charts of the court system and I do not. I talked to my mom on the phone and she said not to wear flip flops tomorrow because it might not make a good impression. But it's hot out, and it's summer. But I have ugly feet. I don't know.

Season-wise, I don't think you are likely to improve on summer 2005. I went on three trips: the comically bad bus tour through southern Italy with my family in May; the life-altering Calfornia trip in June with L; and the profoundly fun southern odyssey in August with James. I am a lucky man. I also left one job, in a way that was much harder and more heart-wrenching than I thought it could be, and braced myself for the student life, which begins right now. And I read some good books this summer, too, especially: "Heaven Lake," by John Dalton, "War Trash," by Ha Jin, and "Politics: Observations and Arguments," by Hendrik Hertzberg (friends call him Rick).

It was a great season, my winning season (I also got to see two minor league ball games, both wonderful). I am thankful for it, and I guess I am ready to do well in law school. I can do this. I am this. I am wearing flips.

Wish me luck...

Song of the South

Hoo boy, I am back. It's been a wild few days. We went down to Charlottesville for a wedding and a heady dose of nostalgia, and then James and I took off for our long-awaited Southern road trip: from Cville to Nashville, and then on to Oxford Mississippi, home of William Faulkner. This was a densely-packed four day period, and the theme turned out to be: People's Homes. We started out at my friends Trish and Matt's, then, consequentially, on to: Andrew Jackson's, Jack Daniel's, and Faulkner's.

It was an amazing trip but I'm afraid I can't do it justice - I didn't keep up my travel journal while we were in the thick of it, so I just have the summary notes I took after we had returned. But this trip scratched an itch I've been nursing for a long while, since I learned about Andrew Jackson in high school and suffered an instant infatuation and desire to get to the Hermitage, his house. So far, this is my first and only presidential crush.... not counting Jefferson. Or FDR. But this is getting weird.

Everything was so Southern about this trip, the way I hoped it would be. Friendliness, heat, the buzzing of insects, the smell of cedar, old, drooping trees, dilapidation. It was romantic but uncomfortably so. Faulkner's house, Rowan Oak, was a dream: less of a musem and more like someone's home. Seeing his writing room was genuinely inspiring, and seeing the origins of the world he created - a literary genesis, a Big Bang - imagining an entire mythology and landscape being spun from this house, these walls, that desk - as a reader I was inspired.

The rhythms of the trip were strange as well - driving until ten or eleven at night, staying awake until late to drink or watch old reality shows, eating a big meal at lunch and little else through the day. As always traveling with James was fantastic. It was a great trip - bigger than I thought it would be. I've been watching more than my fair share of CMT as a result, inspired by our sojourn in Nashville and the beautiful country girls we saw playing in the bars. Chely Wright, anyone?

I'm back home now and will probably head back to the city tomorrow. There is not much for me here, I'm a bit bored. Law school is seven short days away. Very excited and looking forward to writing this thing a bit more often now that summer is winding down and my real life is resuming.

I'm not a nice person

I went to Six Flags today! It was awesome. James and I met at 7:45 to schlep out to New Jersey, which is always a delight in itself, and we hung around the park for half an hour until it actually opened. We went on the following rides: Nitro, the Batman ride, the Superman ride, the Great American Scream Machine (affectionaly known as GASM), Rolling Thunder, and Medusa. As usual, I preferred the twisty ones to the dead-drop-oh-my-god-my-heart-just-imploded ones.

Two important things came out of this day trip: (1) I may be getting too old for this. After the second coaster, which was particularly violent and seizure-inducing, being one of the sleek new modern ones that are made of fiberoptic cables and videogamers' darkest fantasies, I felt like someone had applied an Indian burn to my brain stem. We kind of staggered around and waited for our synapses to reconnect. Meanwhile we watched a wide variety of adolescent social dynamics: the teenage guys who learned all of their cuss words (thug #1: "Fuck this shit!" thug #2: "Bitch!") and the gaggle of ten girls with their sad lonely one male friend who clearly has no guy friends of his own ("Justin, come ooonnnn!" "Oh my God, Mallory, you are so hurting me right now!"). From all of this I ascertained that I may be too old to subject my body to this kind of experience, and that I shouldn't spend my leisure time with teenagers.

(2) We saw at least three overweight people be ejected from the roller coasters they had just boarded after the safety harnesses and lap bars could not contain them because they were too fat. This was embarassing each and every time. Here comes Bobby or Melinda Thunderchunks, waddling up to the car after a thirty or forty minute wait, and they can't get the overhead safety bar to latch into place. Soon Attendant #1 comes over and leans their entire body into the structure, but it won't click. #1 makes a not so subtle hand signal to Attendant #2, and then both of them are straining with all of their mat to displace this poor bastard's body mass enough to strap them into place. Finally they give up, exchange a brief word with the kid, and the kid waddles down and out.

This made me sad for the kids, while at the same time repulsed by them. It was humiliating for them, and everybody waiting saw it happen. A couple of them tried to laugh it off, but nobody else was laughing with them - everybody was disgusted (and, he shamefully admitted, kind of thrilled by it too). Let's face it, extra wide seats on roller coasters are just not a good idea. Slim down or stay home, I guess. It was just so pathetic all around. No wonder the terrorists hate us.

I had never seen this before, and today it happened time after time after time. What is wrong with this country?

Inertia

I am not sure what to do with my time currently... This is the third or fourth weekday of having really nothing at all to do, and I am feeling the first pangs of boredom and panic. I was hoping to get out of town today for the day, but a combination of scheduling issues and the vastness of the wasteland that surrounds New York City (I mean really, is there anything decent within two hours of this place?) made that impossible. So now here I sit at eleven in the morning, all dressed up with no place to go. I am trying to think of something to do or some place to go that's not in my normal routine, but I am struggling. Even just writing this seems pretty darn pathetic.

Tomorrow I have lunch plans, though. That is the rock upon which I will build my day.

Order in the court

Yesterday I weaseled my way out of jury duty. About twenty other jurors and I had to return for an unprecedented third day of potential jury selection, much to my chagrin, and at the moment when I realized I had to go back to possibly become part of a jury on a five- or six-day trial, this little immersion into civics and participatory government stopped being fun. "Ok," I thought. "That will be enough."

I thought long and hard about how to make myself unattractive to the lawyers. I decided to nourish some of my own attitudes and plump them up, teasing them out like the hair on a midwestern person: well, I do sort of think police officers are more reliable than other people.... and if someone was innocent, why wouldn't they testify on their own behalf? Sure enough, after five jurors had been selected, I was called to a jury panel. There were nineteen of us, and I presumed they were looking for nine others. I made my first volley with the prosecutor, discussing my cousin who's a cop and my trust in the profession. I didn't want to toe the line into blind faith, but I came sort of close. Another attorney asked the group if we thought the indictment was proof of any wrongdoing, and I said, "well, where there's smoke, there's fire." He didn't like this, and started talking about how we could endlessly battle in cliches...

At lunch I started to get nervous. I knew the odds weren't good, and how could I compete with the jurors who had been crime victims themselves? I briefly considered buying a laxative at the drugstore and consuming it right when I went back in, but this would have been a little rash. I think I sealed the deal, though, when the prosecutor was (in a certain interminable prosecutorial fashion) reminding us that this wasn't "Law & Order" or "CSI" - there were no scripts, no neat resolutions, just real people. Could we all agree to that? I was nodding and smiling as she droned on. "Yes, Mr. ----, I see you nodding?"

I opened my hands. "I think we can all agree that this isn't a movie," I said. One other juror laughed. I don't think the prosecutor appreciated it.

But you know what? They excused me from the jury. I was kind of a jerk, but I didn't lie or lose my integrity. (I see that now I sound like a booted reality show contestant, but whatever.) I served my duty for three days and I've fulfilled my jury requirements for the next six years. It was an interesting lesson for law school, that's for sure.

Do you solemnly swear

Jury duty! Taking civics to a whole new level - Extreme Citizenship! I got there bright and early, althought the whole day consisted of moving around different rooms and waiting in them. I didn't get picked for a jury, but I must return tomorrow. I almost got picked for a case today (well, not really - I wasn't called after three rounds of jury selection, although I was in the broader pool) but no dice. It would have been interesting, too - a seemingly straight-forward criminal case with just a slight amount of tabloid potential.

I am afraid to say too much about today, because I learned all about juries and the history of Western-style justice and the dangers I risk in sharing too much information thanks to a twenty-minute video the clerk made us all watch. It had surprisingly high production values for government work and began with a dramatic reenactment of the trial systems of yore. At first I thought they were kicking things off with a MOnty Python clip, but I was mistaken. I did laugh, though, when the narrators turned out to be Diane Sawyer and Ed Bradley (others did too). For some reason it was funny to hear things like this:

"In medieval England, suspected criminals were bound at the hands and feet and thrown into the river. If the suspect floated, it meant he was guilty. If he sunk, he was considered innocent... Hi there - I'm Ed Bradley of Sixty Minutes."

I didn't make any jury friends but it was an interesting cross-section of Manhattan: doctors, artists, TV people, journalists, lawyers, teachers. MD, JD, PhD, GED. When 18 potential jurors were seated in the jury box, they had to give a narrative statement explaining where they lived, their occupation, education, experience with the criminal justice system, etc. It was interesting to hear people summarize their lives so succinctly. I tried to practice my piece from my seat in the gallery. Don't try to be funny, just be direct. Mention the fiancee, but the not the cousin who's a police chief. Should you say you're going to law school? Questionable. Anyways, after a fairly monotonous day today (reading Morningside Heights, the Virginia Quarterly Review and stray sections of the day's Times) hopefully tomorrow will run smoothly or excitingly. I've reached the point where I'd almost rather not be selected for a trial than serve on one. We shall see. I'm still waiting for some Grishamesque excitement.

******
Over the weekend, my parents came into town, following an unprecedented two-hour blaze of cleaning, powered by pure Lysol, sweat, and gristle. I hung out with Russell. I briefly saw part of the improv marathon at UCB. And I ended my job in a haze of Persecco and sentimentality. Thankfully I was too tipsy to really consider what was going on.

Love, affection, and a touch of sadness

Today was my departure party at work. Before it began my colleagues were working furtively around the office, slamming doors when I came around and letting me know that my presence wasn't welcome. I was told to stay in my office so that they could organize things. It felt a bit like house arrest, with a dash of Christmas morning. I didn't have much work to do - everything is over - so I read the New Yorker and played some solitaire.

Finally the appointed hour arrived and we went over to the West End. I was nervous as hell. They had printed up Lavinia's notes from my initial interview, back in the summer of 2002, and rereading my own words was a humbling experience. I was proud of some of my language and a touch embarassed by my naivete. People began trickling in and I developed a stock set of small-talk retorts and anecdotes. Yesterday I went to the movies again at midday - and Lavinia told her colleagues and boss about it, so I took a fair amount of crap for it, but it was very funny. L came, too, so she was very impressive and I was glad people could meet her. The conversation was smooth and it felt genuinely fun, which you can't always say about an office party.

For the main event Tara and Lavinia clinked on some glasses and got everyone's attention (maybe 30 people there in all at that point). Tara read a brief thing about me and it was heartfelt and touching. I shifted where I stood and put my hands in my pockets, then crossed my arms, then tapped my foot. I wasn't sure where to look. Lavinia read a longer piece recounting our august history together, and it was funny and embarassing. Afterwards they presented me with a big scrapbook - chock full of emails and flyers and programs, the result of two years' work, as well as their speeches and my own words from the infamous 'Scholar Weekly' emails. The book is really spectacular. And they gave me an orchid, too, our signature gift to our speakers. I said a few words of praise about my two lady colleagues and talked a bit about the office and what I was taking from it - I feel like I was incoherent - I was definitely tipsy at the time, but I covered these bases: "Lavinia was a great friend, and occasionally, a great supervisor;" "I couldn't leave the office unless I knew it would be take care of, and Tara is going to do an amazing job of it;" "I believe in our work here in S&F and I am so honored to be a part of it;" "I hope I can learn half as much in law school as I did here;" and, "there just aren't enough words..." and I thanked them for coming. This is what I remember. Winston Churchill I was not.

The party was supposed to end at six but we didn't leave until 7:30, and L and I returned to my house with the book and the plant in tow. I drunkenly fell asleep and woke again a little while ago. After L left I started reading through the book they gave me and found a surprisingly large section of testimonials from my students and my colleagues. I was listening to Eric Benet's song "India" at the time and lost it a bit. It was really touching to read what people had taken the time to say about me - things I did that I didn't think anyone noticed, things that made a difference for people that I didn't even know. I was so grateful to work in the kind of position and in the kind of community where you can make an impact like this. Receiving a book-ful of people's good will and encouragement for this next chapter of my life -- like when Tara was talking about me, and she mentioned my engagement to L, and this murmur of approval went through the room -- it breaks your heart in a way to realize that people care and that you haven't just been a shadow on the wall.

I'm so thankful for this chapter in my life, and to even have a tangible reminder of it. I'm not the same person I was when I waltzed into this world as a 22 year-old, and I miss that guy, but I'm thankful for the lessons I've learned. But still, it is heart-breaking to me, now.

On the card of the orchid Tara and Lavinia wrote, "With love, affection, and a touch of sadness." As excited as I am for everything ahead, it is so hard to walk away from the people who love you and make you feel like you matter.

On your mark

Tonight I ran in Nike's "Run Hit Wonder" five-mile race in Central Park. My primary goal was to make it the whole way without stopping at all, and the secondary was to maintain eight-minute miles. These are modest goals, admittedly, but running has not been going well lately - there is an intense and persistent soreness buried deep within my right calf, and the mugginess of the air and shitty conditions of some of my usual routes (construction on one side, highway on the other) has made running less than pleasurable lately.

But the race was different. I was one of ten thousand people decked out in the same red shirt and following the same instructions issued by the same chipper British man. (Being herded around, though, reminded me that I would much rather be alone than one of a crowd - it is easier to follow your own instructions.) Along the five miles they had different musical acts set up to goad your progress: Fountains of Wayne (what?), Chingy (who?), Nina Sky (who's she?), DJ Z-Trip (Is that like EZ Pass?), and, finally, Joan Jett (she's not dead?). Running sans iPod was nice, and Nina Sky's "Move Your Body" was surprisingly rousing. I attempted a thunder clap but started cramping up, so it was abortive, tragic as that may be.

The actual run, the progress of my feet across the pavement and my body's willingness to supply energy and adapt to this endeavor, was awesome. The entire time I told myself to take it slow. When I would see myself becoming ambitious - passing other people, charging up or breezing down a hill - I would force myself to slow down to a stately pace. This was hard to maintain, but I never felt any severe pain or stiffness. Once I reached the fourth mile marker I opened up a bit, and I sprinted through the last half mile, making up for lost time and passing many people on the far right edge of the path, weaving around metal fences and up onto curbs. At the line I had energy to spare and I felt fantastic. I didn't stop, and I think I came damn close to my 40 minute goal.

But the actual speed is not what matters - what matters is the discovery of a new way to run, to move. Usually I am hurtling forth at the brink of mayhem, pushing my body to move as fast as possible and demanding the rest of me to keep up with a stubborn will. Today, though, every step was under my control. I felt in control of myself through the entire race, and saying no to my desire to speed up somehow took more than the eager abandon that usually drives me to sprint and compete.

I am still knee-deep in Potterania, and I felt like Harry himself being able to accomplish a great deal but meting out his efforts calmly and assuredly. I think exercising this control and being pleased with the result (respectable time, no major injuries) was a great antidote to some of the fears and insecurities that have been whispering to me in the quiet moments. In this time of transition, I do maintain control over some elements of my life - and today I was deeply grateful for this physical manifestation of my own agency, an ability to know when to let others pass and when to run without feet even touching the ground. It feels so good.

Landslide

This is my death week at work, the week where I stagger around like a zombie, neither living nor dead, here but not relevant, employed yet obsolete. This is the grim way of looking at things. On the positive side, I am on the second of a five-day victory lap through my professional life, cleaning things out, reading old emails with fondness and wistfulness (wist?). We are having good lunches every day this week for old times' sake. On thursday we are having a departure party for me over at the West End, in the backroom. Cold beer and inexpensive foods will flow, people will be there. My colleagues are secretive now, preparing things that I can't know about. It's weird to be the center of attention this way. It's nice to be appreciated but this is something different.

Last night I was beginning to realize how profoundly things are changing at the moment. My entire life in New York has been defined by my involvement with my office and the people therein. By leaving this position I lose daily contact with them, I give up my affiliation with this awesome institution, and the northern boundary of my Manhattan life goes thudding south about fifty blocks. Yet this is a good change - it's time for me to go, and I'm leaving on my own terms. Going back to school was my choice, as was the school I'm attending. I engineered all of this to happen this way over a year ago, and yet I can't believe it's all happening. This is another graduation of sorts, I guess. I was trying to recount the chapters of my postgraduate life the other day - I think this is number three, maybe four - but I'm on the brink of a new one, a more different one.

Tomorrow I'm running a five mile race in the park. I've been trying to prepare for it, but muggy weather and a stiff knee have complicated things. Thursday is the big party. Friday is my last day of work (I need to get some cards or something for my colleagues, crap) and then my parents are in town for the weekend. Russell will be here too. Then on Monday I have jury duty, and assuming I'm not sequestered away for some mafioso/New York rapper celebrity trial, I'll be back in Ol' Virginny in early August. Home to Charlottesville for a food tour and a wedding, a reunion with many friends, and then a trip to Mississippi with James to pay our respects to William Faulkner's house. If I could I would fast-forward through these next few days to bring me back home. I know I should savor these last moments at work with my people, but I am not one for goodbyes and I feel like a relic already.

Ever since I heard that song 'Landslide' when I was sixteen or so, the line about handling the seasons of one's life has always gotten to me. Especially now in the midst of all of this change. There are a few constants in my life, which I am thankful for, and of course everything going on is within my control and was the result of my choices, but somehow all of this is greater than the sum of its parts. I didn't realize it would be quite like this, sailing through the changing ocean tides...

Harry Potter and the Unprecedented Marketing Phenomenon

I have been binging on Harry Potter lately. I bought the fourth and fifth books ("and the Goblet of Fire," "and the Order of the Phoenix," respectively) in anticipation of the arrival tonight at midnight of the sixth ("and the Half-Blood Prince"). I hadn't planned on buying the new book in hardback and being sucked into the frenzy, but I have decided to succumb to it.

I do enjoy these books. Rowling is so thorough when it comes to creating and populating her world, with generations of characters, histories, products, traditions. In all of the books you have children grappling with the legacies and losses of their parents. Rowling understands that simultaneous devotion to and revolt from one's parents is the basic tension of childhood, and I think you see it a lot in these books. (Like Roald Dahl, too, celebrating the joy of overthrowing one's nasty and vile elders.) I love the fourth book because it turns dark and lays out a basic sketch of how things will be. I just finished it here at work, after reading it at home and carting it on the train. I feel that clutching a Harry Potter book is somewhat emasculating - the cartoonish cover fonts, the forcefully whimsical checkered pattern on the spine, the red letters announcing "SCHOLASTIC," the comically shitty binding and paper quality that screams "This is only children's literature!" - but I carry it around anyway.

I do wonder, though, how Rowling will wrap this up. She can't just let the kiddies graduate from Hogwarts and fade off into a sunset of "Harry Potter: The College Years." In a grim way I would like to see it end in an apocalyptic battle of good vs. evil. The author spent the first four books creating a world, and now she changes it, or destroys it. In Newsweek they were speculating that perhaps Dumbledore is really Potter himself, travelling back in time as an old man. What an idea! Maybe there will be some kind of violent synthesis of the Muggle and magic worlds, maybe Harry Potter will Apparate into a Toys 'R' Us featuring an in-store promotional event with the precocious moppet who plays him in the movies. I don't know. All I do know is that these days every time I pass by a mirror I get a weird scowl on my face and try saying "'Arry Pottah" in every kind of British accent I can muster. It's a magical time.

Chicken

Tonight I wanted to be good - I cooked chicken by myself, alone, for the first time. It went ok - the poor bird was sliced to bits in the pan by the time I was satisfied that all possible salmonella had been eradicated. The meal was followed of course by an intense spray-down of all kitchen surfaces using a powerful industrial-grade pesticide, but whatever. It's the way of the gourmand. And it smells great.

But you know what the utterly shitty part was? I really wanted to have green beans, and I had the can and everything, but I couldn't work the can opener. It's one of those weird ones that look like it fell from the innards of a helicopter, one of the cheap ones made of three long pieces and then a slightly sharpened wheel. I played with it and scraped the hell out of the top of the can, but to no avail. I could open a can with it about as well as I could use it to pierce my own ear. By the time it was over I was ready to throw it through the window. I felt idiotic, like a golden retriever trying to work an abacus. Sometimes I feel smart and sometimes I feel like a stupid little prat. But overall I guess the meal was a success. Nothing like four pieces of chicken, eaten directly out of the pan. Bachelorhood rawks!

Transitions

Things that are changing: I went to Connecticut on Sunday for brunch with L's family, and I realized that I am learning more and more what it means to be a son-in-law. It's a role I'm happy about - I like her family, I'm looking forward to having a brother-in-law. I look at the way my dad is with my mom's family, and I hope I can do the same. At work, I set my last day as July 22, only 8 full days away, since vacation days (and jury duty) (!) will slice the edge right off the end of the month. We sent invitations for my departure party today, which will take place next thursday.

One chapter is ending
A new one begun
Come celebrate the fact
that Michael
is done.

How to succeed in business, part 2

I have established an unsettling rhythm to my worklife. I stay awake until very late at night - unnecessarily, needlessly - awake until 2:30 or 3 am. Finally my body just kind of gives up and sleeps. Then I ignore the alarm that goes off at 8 and I sleep through it for at least another hour, lurching across my bed every ten minutes to slam down the snooze bar the way you would forcefully dunk under the water the head of someone you were trying to drown. As I shower I consider the many permutations of business casual ensembles I could create - khakis, polos, button downs - and then I put on shorts and sneakers anyway. At this point, approximately 10;15, seventy-five minutes after the start of the workday, I may eat some breakfast in my kitchen, if I am feeling especially virtuous.

Not many people are on the subway between 10 and 11 in the morning. Indigents. People casually dressed, wayward tourists. I can always find a seat, although it can be a long wait for a train. I stride into work breezily, considering whether or not to feign illness or a hangover, wondering if The Powers That Be can log my swipe card's history of arrivals, and then seeing that a good third of my office is not in anyway. Summer is a fairly quiet season for my office, at least compared to the madness of September and October, and a certain dip in intensity is acceptable, even, to a degree, encouraged. Recently I've developed a sick addiction to Spider Solitaire - I was even dreaming of playing the game in my half-asleep state the other night, picturing the board and making moves. I realized that I can play the game with impunity if I just close my office door and pretend I am making a wrenching and profound cell-phone call. At the end of the work day I return home and collapse onto the unmade bed for a nap.

I hate this way of life. I feel lazy, slothlike and stagnant. Fortunately I only have three weeks left in my current position, one of which will be occupied by jury duty (!), so there is both a reason and a terminus for this malaise. I have been trying to make changes, though. I did some good work yesterday, and today I wrangled my loan application to pay for law school. This afternoon I went for a run and ran into an old friend (not literally), and I saw a tv news guy taping a piece and some models being photographed, as well as an outdoor concert about to begin. The glories of New York in three miles. I went to B&N and the Strand and then ate some Chipotle, feeling the uncomfortable neurotic alchemy of great wealth and great poverty that comes from a loan of several tens of thousands of bucks. So I covered that unease with a layer of rice and beans and sour cream. And when I came home I organized my bills from the last three years as well as my personal correspondence.

I am trying to be better, I am trying not to not end work on a negative and lazy note, but it's hard to ignore a gnawing sense of apathy and exhaustion. I am ready for a new challenge, I know what it is and I want to start doing it now. But I need to leave work with my head held high, too. Tomorrow I will go in and cross things of my list of tasks for the day, and then I will leave for a guilt-free weekend of moderate indulgence and sloth. The only saving grace of living this way - this lazy, intemperate, embarassing way - is knowing when and how and that I can redeem myself.

A future committed to the freedom

This weekend L and I went home for a "Meet the Fockers" style summit between our two families. It went well, everyone was pleased and friendly, yet I was reminded once again that our families are just different. And that's all I'm going to say about that.

After taking an inordinate amount of shit all weekend for taking the train home while L rode the cheap Orthodox Jewish bus, I caved in to the pressure and bought a bus ticket for the return to New York. I thought this could be a time of prenuptial reverie and bliss, a chance to enjoy the wilds of I-95 and maybe indulge in a Cinnabon or two, but, sadly, the video bus sucked. The air conditioner was broken, so we were baking in a plexiglass oven for four and a half hours. On my shorts you could see the sweat where my arm had lain over my leg. The driver, a friendly Morgan Freeman kind of guy, offered as the first movie "The Battle of the Bulge," in honor of the July 4th holiday. Then we endured the actual "Meet the Fockers" in patent-pending skull-wrenching IntensaSound, thanks to the idiot deaf person who asked to raise the volume. That's a real red-state/blue-state kind of movie, once you start looking for the political subtext.

Also on this bus ride the clasp connecting the cap of my water bottle (the one I got for free imprinted with my law school's name on it) broke off, which was another disappointment, and which I can't help but hold L personally responsible for. The ride was horrible, but I can see how it would be pleasant in mild weather, if you had no concern for time, and if for some reason the entire railroad infrastructure of the east coast was utterly destroyed.

Best part of the ride, though: I'm reading Hendrik Hertzberg's "Politics: Observations & Arguments," and I was laughing out loud at his articles about Dan Quayle. On page 229, discussing the 1988 vice presidential debate, he refers to "[Quayle's] demagogic promise never to have another grain embargo - or, as he jumpily called it, 'another Jimmy Carter grain embargo, Jimmy, Jimmy Carter, Jimmy Carter grain embargo, Jimmy Carter grain embargo." I'm actually laughing out loud as I type this. As part of the closing statement in the debate, Hendrik writes that Quayle "ended by saying, in a flourish that sounded like a literal translation from some language other than English, 'George Bush has the experience, and with me the future - a future committed to our family, a future committed to the freedom.' What?" (231).

I love it. The day ended well, with a nice run through battery park as people gathered to watch the fireworks, and then drinks and tapas with Ashesh and L. A good declaration.

"Jimmy Carter grain embargo" is now, like, the phrase of the month.

How to succeed in business...

Today I reached a new plateau of professionalism. Last night I made arrangements with my friend James to meet him for lunch today, and we decided, in a slight stretch of the traditional norms of the workplace, to meet at the Chipotle located eighty blocks south of my office. No problem; we have done this before and it's fine. The worst part is dealing with all of the midtown professional drones in their pastel ties and sweater sets. But today, an hour before we were supposed to meet at 34th street, I had an epiphany. I called James, and there was no time for pleasantries.

"I have an idea that is so crazy, your brain is going to dissolve," I said. "What is located next door to Chipotle on 34th street?"
"The movie theater," he replied. I knew he would know.
"And what movie opens up today in wide release?"
"War of the Worlds."
"Yes. And that's all I'm going to say," I said. I was anxious to get off the phone, afraid to get my hopes up, afraid this impossible dream might somehow come true. "Two words for you: 1:15 and 1:45. But that's all I'm saying."

Well, today, Wednesday, at 1:10 pm, you would have found me in a darkened movie theater waiting for the movie to start (we enjoyed a string of previews all having to do, oddly enough, with island mishaps. Moral of the story: don't go anyplace new). It was an extremely odd assortment of people sharing in our midday moviegoing experience, a typical Manhattan cross-section. Old people, teens, ratty people, smartly dressed people who seemed like heads of households. "What's with these people?" I thought contemptuously. "Don't you have jobs? Shouldn't you be working?" Perhaps they were illiterate. I don't know.

I was back at my desk by 4 pm. No harm, no foul. The movie was great, and a major component of my enjoyment came from the illicit pleasure of playing hooky. It didn't feel like I was skipping my job; it felt like I was skipping algebra class. I had even tried to make a hall pass before I left - I wrote a note of explanation to my boss and left it on her chair (she happened to be out of the office, too). I showed the note to a colleague. "Why are you even writing this? What do you want me to do, initial it? Just go. Have fun."

So I did. I shed the usual business-casual shackles and submerged myself in the idyll of a summer afternoon, like back in the days when the only elements of happiness were a driver's license and a warm day and the confidence and bluster to walk away from whatever you let confine you.

Summer solstice

I've been gone for a week, to San Francisco and its environs. L and I went to visit some friends out there and we had a great time in the city, Napa, Yosemite. The big thing, though, is that while we were there we got engaged - I asked her to marry me and she said yes, so now that's where we stand: affianced and loving it.

Even writing the words down is odd - the formality of the language of engagements and proposals and marriages. This whole process has made me feel very old and very young all at once: old enough to envisage my life, in all of its turns and twists until my death, in the company of another, old enough to consider joint checking accounts and naming children and caring for in-laws; and young enough to dive into this venture with optimism and maybe some naivete about what a life-long partnership entails, young enough to be brave enough to even try. But now that it's done I am much happier with the word 'fiancee' than I was with 'girlfriend,' and the prospect of living my life with this woman makes me joyful on a profound level. Before we used to talk about marriage and weddings in a painfully abstract and distanced way: "when I become engaged to someone," "when I have taken a bride," "when I have the occasion to plan a wedding." The relief - the relief! the gratitude! - to talk about our wedding, our life, our children. They will be good-looking, smart, dark-haired. Perhaps even athletic.

I bought the ring a couple weeks ago, through an amusingly blog-worthy process that I couldn't even discuss back then. Since I bought the ring I've been playing with it and admiring it almost nightly - infusing it with love and my touch, listening to the most romantic music I have (Jill Scott, Coldplay, Ginuwine, Stevie W) and blessing the ring with it. I knew the day I would propose on this trip - Tuesday, June 21, the summer solstice, when we were going to do a 17-mile hike up Half-Dome in Yosemite.

The night before we were staying at the Little Valley Inn, in Mariposa, 40 miles beyond Yosemite. We meant to go to bed early in order to wake up at 4:30 and drive into the park. I couldn't sleep, though, tense with anticipation, not even doubting my plans but enduring a rush of butterflies all the same. I couldn't stray too far from the bathroom, either. I lulled myself to sleep thinking about my friends and family, imagining telling them and enjoying their reactions. On the hike I wasn't sure when I would ask the question, but about a quarter of the way in we found ourselves eating breakfast on some shady rocks atop the breathtaking Nevada Falls. There were few people around, mostly a very aggressive breed of fat and short-tailed squirrel, as well as a smattering or curious blue birds who were not shy about mugging for some spare trail mix.

Asking the question reminded me of improv, and of how it felt to decide to kiss a girl in high school. Once the course of action was set, there was no turning back, only commitment. As we got up to leave I said, hold on, and pivoted onto one knee as L stood before. There were about eight points that I wanted to cover as I spoke, points dealing with: our love, our potential family, what she means to me, the hike as metaphor, etc. I remembered maybe three of them. She was shaking and turning a little bit red, so I held her steady as I talked. I was very aware of the situation and felt surprisingly detached. Finally, with lots of hems and haws, I finished my opening statement and asked the questions. She said yes and I showed her the ring and slid it on her finger, and she loved it. We got up and the squirrels scattered. Someone took our picture and then we kept moving up the mountain - there was a long ways to go yet.

A long ways to go but we were floating. Before I left for the trip I felt like Moses leaving to climb the mountain to receive the ten commandments. I was aware of the trip as an important hinge in my life - I was on a pilgrimage where things would change in a profound way. Now I have returned, yoked to this woman for the rest of time, and it brings me nothing but joy and love and gratitude. I am a changed man now, and I think for the better.

Keep this on the hush

I saw "Mr. and Mrs. Smith" the other day. Way better than I expected! Brangelina, looking good. Angie with her Fembot team of she-assassins. The sexual tension was so thick it was dribbling off the edge of the screen . . . Who goes to see the Metropolitan Opera give a free performance of 'Samson et Delila' in Central Park and then leave 45 minutes in because of the bizarre mid-June cold snap? The same people who spill hummus and lamb all over my New York Times beach towel . . . meaning us!

Newsflash! . . . I'm reading Ha Jin's novel "War Trash" and I really like it! But I bent the cover in my bag and I tried to blame L for it. Not appropriate . . . We're going to California on Saturday for a week, to San Francisco and Yosemite National Park. Hiking, reading, driving in a rental car, west coast city life. This country of ours is huge . . . And finally: a friend of a friend was reading this blog, and thought I was a chick. And just when I was feeling confident about my gendered identity . . .

This style is tiresome. But I wanted to at least put something out there. More later.

Circus leaving town

Today Michael Jackson was acquitted of the ten counts against him. I tried not to pay attention to the trial, but the prurient details sometimes proved irrestistible: the sad porn collection of a middle-aged man, the secret jukebox passageways, the licking of boys' heads (!). All those bizarre Europeans camping out the courthouse for months at a time, with their weird fashions and curiously juvenile posters. What is going on here? And why couldn't the posters have been better? It's not like they have much else to do, besides weep a lot.

In eighth grade I wrote an English paper about Michael Jackson's arrested development, his efforts to recover a childhood from within his gilded cage. When I was very young I used to go crazy when my parents played "Beat It" - I developed a foot-stomping, furiously aerobic dance dubbed the Boothead Shuffle by parents and relatives, a state of mind into which I would plummet whenever I heard those first guitar licks. I did this on birthdays, anniversaries, family reunions, and at least one occasion in which a video camera was present.

All this to say that my relationship with Michael Jackson is long and multifaceted. Today I can't even listen to him on my iPod. I see how the prosecution couldn't prove anything beyond that pesky reasonable doubt, I see how the accuser turned out to be a total wackjob with the reliability of a narcoleptic doing air traffic control, but something is not right. He should have been found guilty of something. If not a crime, then at least squandering a life of wealth and influence.

Honestly, he should have died tragically in a plane crash in the late 80s. Or even, say, 1993 - I'd give him "Dangerous" just for the joys of "Remember the Time." But think how he would be remembered if he left this earth before all of this came out. In some ways it may have been better - and that is a sad and deflating idea to consider.

Life is but a dream

Yesterday L and I went rowing in the boats in Central Park. This has been a goal of mine for three years now. Running through the park, or meandering, I would always see cheerful couples or bustling young families or lone former crew people paddling along the lake, under the bridges, near the guitar player, by Bethesda fountain. When L arrived, I told her, "I will row you in a boat. Let me row you in a boat."

Sitting in the boats is a somewhat grimy experience. Your ass ends up a little damp - lake water? Sweat? Residual moistness? The oars squeak horribly and you sit facing the rear of the boat to propel yourself forward, gazing into the face of your companion as you try not to get mad by her seemingly-constant litany of course corrections. You can push the oars forward, leading with the rear of the boat, and it feels kind of like a chest press. You can spin yourself around with the oars or just float aimlessly and enjoy a view of nearly uninterrupted greenness, the grass, trees, shrubbery, doubly seen through a lens of water. Towers and apartments rising from behind like an old species of tree.

It felt good to row her in a boat in Central Park. We will do it again, I am sure.

All that, and the new Coldplay CD is spectacular.

Freon dreams/Perils of athleticism

Last night I bought an air conditioner, after two nights of stifling heat and one rejected invitation for L to stay over. I found a decent air conditioner for about ninety bucks at Le Home Depot, and I decided to catch a cab home. A cabbie stopped, but he called out the window to find out where I was going before he would pull over. What the hell? My New York Survival Aggression reared its ugly head as I snarled, "Tenth and Sixth. You taking it, or what?" I was surprised at myself, but I blame the effects of the heat. Putting the damned thing in place was an ordeal, requiring me to shove the fridge and oven away from the wall, where I discovered a warren of power strips and extension cords. I simplified things somewhat, but now I have a fridge, oven, and AC all connected to one power strip leading back to the outlet. I am a little concerned by this, but I figure I'll only use two at a time and I'll be all right. Several times I almost dropped the air conditioner into the bottomless shaft of my building. And my lingering question is: Will the pigeon shit that is quickly accumulating on my AC somehow makes it way into the environment of my apartment? And would that have any detrimental effects on me? I googled this, but couldn't really find anything.

Anyways, the week has been good. Stifling days make for pleasant evenings. The reading on Monday went very well - a smaller crowd, but everybody was into it. A few people came out to see me, and I was grateful for that. I ended up reading last, and I did this piece on Little League and playing softball with my friend's Olympic coworkers. I had pecked it out over the weekend for the "Sports Night" theme, and I tried to write it in the vein of one of the New Yorker's "Personal Histories," which I love. I wasn't sure how it would go over, but it got a really good response and I felt great about everything in the world.

However, last night I confronted a problem that has been creeping up on me like - well, like a mold on your feet. ATHLETE'S FOOT. I went on WebMD.com, a site I will not even link to due to the miserable compulsion I feel to go there and identify new ailments from which I suffer, and I learned all about this condition and why I'm such a bad person for getting it in the first place. After two weeks of ointments I should be all cleaned up. In the meantime, I'm deciding if burning all my footwear, rugs and bedding is enough, or if I need to immolate myself alongside them. Today, the first full day of treatment, my feet feel like they are on the rotisserie, because I am thinking of them a lot. And the empathy and support I would expect from friends and family is nowhere to be found, instead I suffer the usual derision and indignities. Well, good for me for at least getting "Athlete's Foot" - maybe someday I could get "Jock Itch," too. Or maybe even "Stud Burn," except that's just plain ol' herpes. No thanks, WebMD.

A fistful of Pez

On Saturday night I find myself standing with Ashesh by the bar of the Sapphire Lounge. Fantastic music - R & B, reggaeton - was pumping over the system, but we had no women to lure onto the dance floor. There were a couple of bachelorette parties going on, as evinced by the preponderance of white girls of a certain age, and an excess of woo-ing, which you can usually escape at Sapphire (as well as girls dancing with their arms over their heads).

Ashesh and I were talking and suddenly two girls were standing before us. They were looking at us expectantly and I felt a moment of pride. The tall blonde who looked like the muscles in her face weren't entirely under her control was covering Ashesh, and I had the slightly mousier brunette (maybe she would be smart-cute in the light?). Well, well, I thought. But of course. And how are you ladies tonight? They were both emissaries of the bachelorette parties, and they were both wearing candy necklaces. "Bite off a candy . . . a dollar?" was all I could hear over the music. We sort of dumbly agreed and I soon found myself gingerly trying to bite off a single candy from the strand, while fastidiously avoiding touching the girl's skin and trying not to snap the twine. She didn't smell particularly good. I finally succeeded and was unclear about what kind of transaction was taking place until Ashesh took out his wallet and gave his girl a dollar. I did the same and they wandered away. "That was weird," I said. "That was not worth a dollar." "I got her hair stuck in my teeth," Ashesh said.

As the night continued more and more girls came up asking us for a dollar to bite a piece of candy from their necklaces. What was this money for? And wasn't a dollar kind of steep for such a wretched prize? The girls were sadder and sadder as the night progressed. The more prudish ones wouldn't wear the necklace, so one came up with the whole thing wadded into a damp napkin. One twirled it around her finger, and another dropped hers onto the floor and then picked it up and offered it to us: "Do you want a piece of candy for a dollar sorry it fell on the floor?" They completely divorced the "sexy" aspect of the process, and thus bled it dry of the last shred of appeal. Would I pay a dollar to take a Pez from somebody's sweaty fist? No, madam, I would not.

These were not sexy girls but they were trying to be. Near the end of the night the eventual bride came up and asked if we would sit down and hold her drink between our legs. It was the saddest thing in the world. We both said no, of course, but then we soon saw her consuming her drink from between the legs of a random seated guy, a veritable piece de resistance for the evening. Woo!

The main event

The Church Basement Reading Series continues this Monday night! And I'm in it. The theme is "Sports Night," so it will be a night of both hilarity and pathos.

Micky's Blue Room
Avenue C between 10th and 11th Streets

Monday, 6 June 2005
8 pm

See you there!

Call me out my name

Yesterday I walked out into the main area of my workplace and mentioned that a new show was going to be on TV that night, a show that I was mildly interested in watching and that would provide some structure for my night. The show was on Bravo, and it was called “Sportskids Moms and Dads.” (In hindsight, I see how pathetic this sounds, and why it was never a fruitful topic of conversation.) One of my coworkers, a woman I consider a friend, said:

“You’re such a TV whore!”

I retreated into my office thoroughly chastened as everyone else laughed ruefully. As I returned I could hear someone mutter, “Dang, that was harsh.” My face turned all kinds of red, and I was surprised at the wave of humiliation and shame that coursed through my body. TV’s not the only thing I do, you know. I read books, magazines, newspapers. I exercise. I can talk about music and film. I’ve done improv, I write some. I’m going to school soon. Yet beyond all of that, I think this woman hit a deeper truth, one I find myself afraid to confront.

But what’s wrong with watching some TV as long as you’re well-rounded? I feel the same ambivalence and guilt about watching television as I think I would if I, say, chewed tobacco regularly. And the damnedest part is that I did watch the show, and it wasn’t even that good.

My big fat greek trip to Italy

Well, I’m back from ten days in Southern Italy. With my family. On a bus.

Sicily was beautiful: clear waters, rocky mountains, stunning hillsides. The food and wine were great, the people were goodlooking and friendly. It was a strange trip, though, because it’s so different from the ways I’m used to traveling. Here we were with 30 other Americans on a big loping Star Bus, which was pretty comfortable, but which pretty much served as a holding pen on wheels. We all woke up together and ate together in restaurants and hotel dining rooms. They would drive us from one tourist trap to another. “See the centuries-old mosaics and the Greek temple ruins!” They’d tell us. Or: “Now we’ll drive to the mountaintop to snap photos of the beach!” And then we’d get there, and there would be twelve buses in place already, with a bunch of fat Americans mooning around and asking for mayonnaise. At that point, while my mom went to the restroom for a period up to 40 minutes long, we would lose our own tour group and become stuck behind three others. I don’t believe in stereotypes, but I can say that Japanese tourists are assholes.

We woke up very early and went to bed very early, we walked slow, we took our time. I felt frustrated at every turn, like the kid in “The Incredibles,” but a lot more sullen. At different points I got frustrated with everyone in my family and everyone in our tour group. “Why can’t you even try to speak Italian!” “Why do you shuffle so slowly! Does that cane even do anything?” “Why are you so diabetic all the time!”, etc. This was not a healthy attitude, and so I don’t think I managed to really relax on the trip. It was a very task-oriented vacation, which has its own set of peculiar charms, but it was a rough way to live for ten days. I mean, we woke up at six every day – we didn’t even get a weekend. It was worse than working.

Here are some of the positive things about it: quality time with my family, great reading, beautiful country, hiking up Mt. Etna (my second volcano this year!), the Isle of Capri (birthplace of Capri Sun beverages, I like to believe), walking down the streets of Pompeii, I communicated with the Italians pretty darn well (another European even thought I was a clerk in store, which was mind-boggling), and I got some good sun. And now it’s good to be back.