Day at Citifield

Yesterday Ashesh, Mona, L and I braved the 7 train to check out the Mets/Brewers game at the brand-new Citifield. Everything -- the ballpark, the weather, the seats, the outcome, the Blue Smoke ribs, the time we appeared on the Jumbotron, the margaritas we enjoyed back in the neighborhood afterwards -- was spectacular. It was a great day to be a New Yorker.

Although Citifield is definitely cut from the same Venerable-Old-Timey-Ivy-and-Brickwork aesthetic now dominating most new baseball stadiums, I thought they actually showed some restraint in not laying it on too thick. For all of the masonry and elegantly arches welcoming you to the Jackie Robinson Rotunda, there's plenty of exposed piping and darkly painted I-beams running along everything. The Rotunda itself was beautiful, an exceptional welcome to the new ballpark, with some genuinely inspirational inscriptions along the walls and floor. Near the center of the floor are a giant pair of bright-blue numbers, 42, behind markings representing Robinson's footprints. This area was mobbed with people taking photos as the game ended, and it made me really happy to see it. The whole thing was reverent and historical but still accessible and human-scale, like the game itself. How stuffy can you be when you are mere feet away from a men's room with dozens of urinals lined in a row?

Food-wise, they had plenty of your typical baseball fare, and tucked behind center field, rght alongside the whiffle ball diamond, is the ridiculous foodie oasis that seemed to really capture the modern Manhattanite's obsession with normal dishes somehow made exotic or locally grown or inexplicably expensive. Blue Smoke! Shake Shack! Fancy beers! Fancy tacos! It was unbelievable. The ribs were ridiculous, although I found them really hard to eat and could have used more wet naps.

Anyways, the day was perfect -- bright blue skies, a breeze keeping the flags lining the top of the stands in full view. Our seats were right along the first base line, giving us a great view of most of the action. The game was quick, with awesome pitching by Johan Santana that made up for the general lack of batting action. I tried to take a few photos with the old iphone, but between the bright sun and the barbecue sauce smeared all over my fingers (and face, let's keep it real) it was sort of challenging.

Here's a view of the infield from our seats. These seats were so good, the first thing I thought about as we settled in was that we could be killed by a foul ball in the blink of an eye. It was exciting!
Here's everyone going crazy as Mr. Met started shooting t-shirts into the crowd:
What a great day. I can't wait to go back. It made me want to buy a whole bunch of Mets stuff, too, like a cap, although wearing a baseball hat here is like making a strong political statement that half of everyone else will find extremely obnoxious. Like if you walked around with an "I'm GLAD we're in Iraq!" hat. Not that being a Mets fan is equivalent, but I would feel pressure to be knowledgeable and ready to defend the team, especially since a lot of these smarmy corporate types I tend to spend time with these days are usually Yankees fans. I just don't know if I'm ready for that commitment. But days like this definitely push me in that direction.

"The-Dream is everywhere"

The best part of the current New Yorker, besides the beautiful cover and the articles I wish I could write, is the fact that the main essay in the back section is on my favorite, The-Dream. He has a new album out this spring, nipping on the heels of "Love/Hate," which you may recall dominated my sonic life for most of 2008. Sasha Frere-Jones is my favorite music writer -- he can capture its beauty and complexity in a way that always leaves me fumbling. His genius, though, is in the fact that he shares some of my tastes, which is how I can vouch for his brilliance.

Anyways, the new Dream album, "Love vs. Money," is great. He and his collaborator, Tricky Stewart, have not strayed far from the successful formula of their last venture, and they are still playing in the same universe of "ella"s and "eh"s and "Aye!"s. This time around, though, Dream is more ambitious about his skills and his place in the current R&B firmament. His singing has improved, with more traditional vocal flecks and R&B stylings. He offers a tribute to R. Kelly, then slyly supplants him in the final line of the song. Besides the swagger and good humor that characterized the last album, he attempts to lay the groundwork for the larger theme of the title, love vs. money. His songs about money -- "if she wanna make love on the edge of the world, I'll buy it" -- are knowing and briefly convincing. The last 90 seconds of "Fancy," for example, capture the intoxication and confidence and romance of wealth in a way that is genuinely exciting. It makes you want to live in that song.

Since the last album grew on me over such a long period of time, I'm trying to keep my expectations low for this venture and just enjoy it as it comes. Several tracks hooked me immediately: "Take U Home 2 My Mama," "My Love" with Mariah, "Walkin on the Moon" with Kanye, the "Rockin That Thing" remix. I love this guy.

As usual, Sasha Frere-Jones got it exactly right in the magazine:

Hip-hop allowed R&B singers to become aggressive again, to make the language blunt, and to admit a little bit of selfishness into the nice-guy routine. Having run that particular program, R&B is now following [The-Dream and Tricky Stewart] to a more subtle and complex area, where aggression and tenderness are equally represented.

Slow pitch

One of the best things about adulthood, bar none, is the fact that no one makes you participate in organized youth sports. I spent a lot of time in my formative years playing youth sports: cheering on my teammates as they charged ahead of me in the batting lineup, bantering with the assistant coaches as I sat out the inning in the dugout, winning the end-of-season awards for Most Sportsmanlike, or, even more humiliatingly, Most Improved. As a kid I would literally spend the entire schoolday dreading Little League practice, wondering what new failure or humiliation might be waiting for me there.

Through the years I sort of improved: my hand-eye coordination got better, and I learned the value of hustling. Even if you are truly bad at something, if you really hustle, you can generally get by all right. (This is true of everything.) In basketball I was able to snatch rebounds and really thrash the ball around to shake off other players, and I was tenacious at defense, keeping my eye on my opponent's midsection so he couldn't fake me out. In baseball, after I would completely miscalculate a line drive or a fly, I would run extremely quickly to wherever it landed on the ground and hurl it back towards the infield. There was a real upward trend.

Now, of course, I'm a grown-ass man, with a wife, an advanced degree, a professional career, my own apartment, copious student loan debt, and the freedom to fill my leisure time as I see fit. Rarely in the last decade has this included organized sports, save from individual efforts like running, which doesn't involve catching things. Yet tomorrow, dear reader, I will be playing on the firm's softball team, as we face some other corporate team at a ballfield on Roosevelt Island. That's right -- it's time to play Little League for adults, except now, rather than play with random kids from other elementary schools, I get to play with my coworkers! Awesome!

Obviously I am not going into this unprepared. Last Monday, when I found out that I would have to be playing softball in a little over a week, I promptly went to Sports Authority and spent about $60 on miscellaneous equipment. I also spent another obscene amount of cash to rent a batting cage at Chelsea Piers on Saturday. Anna, John, Mona and Ashesh, who were very good sports about everything, accompanied me. It was actually a lot of fun, even though we were surrounded by children's birthday parties. As I stood in the cage, my body ratcheted into the familiar position -- knees bent, shoulders cocked back, forearms tense, breathing steadily, whimpering slightly -- I felt the same good old sense of panic. Blood pounding in my temples, queasiness in my gut, the whole deal.

By the end of the hour (at which point we had all thoroughly lost interest in batting) I was feeling a lot better. After a couple of tragicomic whiffs at the beginning, I was making contact with every single slow, loping pitch, knocking the softballs into some solid line drives and a few angry grounders. I realized that I made better contact if I stepped a little farther back from the plate. I felt confident, even though most of my hits felt ugly against the bat, giving me that ringing feeling in my hands, like I was batting with a piece of rebar.

So that's where things are. Tomorrow night is softball night, unless it rains or something, which would obviously be horrible. In the evenings I have been oiling up the new baseball glove I bought, which feels cheap and plasticky on my hand, and there was a moment the other night when I smelled the leather, and I threw the ball into the pocket and held it there, and I realized I was actually kind of excited to get out there and see what happens. Not that this is redemption, or that I even need redemption, but maybe I will surprise myself. It could be something good, you never know. Batter up...

Zombie law firm

Whenever I find myself alone in the office, late at night or on the weekends, my mind often turns to how I would defend myself if I was attacked by zombies. Inside the perimeter of offices along the exterior, the core of the floor is a dense warren of narrow hallways and alcoves. There are elevator shafts no one uses, doors that are never opened, behind which you can hear the building groan and howl. Coming up through the night elevators deposits you in a dark, empty room, and a security card is required to gain entry into the offices beyond. When the partitions to the main elevators at shut, even the old print-out sign seems ominous: "Use the night elevators as a LAST RESORT."

Six months in, with a lingering confusion over those inner hallways, the mysterious elevator shafts, and most of all, the constant whine from behind those doors -- honestly, it's as if we're a couple dozen floors above the gates of hell -- I do find myself thinking of zombies. Not the slow, stately kind, with their predictable lurching and almost adorably simple agendas -- I'm talking about the hyperactive, "28 Days Later"-style zombies: fast, enraged, and mean. Presumably these zombies were lawyers once.

Sometimes when I look down the long, empty corridors, lined with vacant offices and silent from the usual weekday din, I imagine seeing some agitated zombie scuttling down the hall, mouth agape and screaming a loud shrill cry, like the sound from that damn elevator shaft. I dart into a nearby office and slam the door behind me. It won't or can't lock, and the Aeron rolling chair is useless to keep it shut. Leaning against the door with all my might, there is a sudden thud as the zombie throws himself against the door from the other side, and I feel a ringing in my body from the impact. I can briefly see the zombie's twisted face mashed against the frosted glass panel beside the door. Enraged, he snarls and momentarily retreats. Holding my breath, knowing what's coming, I try to ground my feet into the muted colors of the carpet, desperate to find some leverage to keep him out, to strengthen my hold on the door. With a piercing scream, a sound like the air itself tearing away in front of me, the zombie hurls himself against the door. I am filled with horror as he comes blazing into the office, a gust of bitterness, coppery and pungent, filling my lungs as as he tumbles on top of me and we fall behind the desk. Animal panic rises in me as I sense the zombie's teeth gnashing near my skin, as I realize that his brittle dry fingers are clamped on my body. Feeling as if I am on fire, as if there is nothing else in the world besides my own survival, I slam him against the credenza and he yelps -- I shove his head back with the butt of my palm, momentarily disgusted by the softness of his forehead, and drive him into the cheap wood paneling of the office furniture. Taking advantage of his confusion, I reach to the shelf above to grab a copy of Siegel's New York Practice, 5th edition -- 900 pages, hardback, of everything a young attorney needs to know about the practice of law in the Empire State. Standing up and gripping it tightly, I strike him backhandedly and shove him upwards, over the credenza and against the glass of the window -- after a moment of pressure there is quick sharp rush as the glass shatters, and the zombie is yelling in fury and then horror as he goes tumbling out the window, a thrashing figure engulfed in a rain of glass, plummeting down to 50th street far below. I am standing there in the wrecked office, breathing heavily as a new wind gusts inward from the street, holding my New York Practice as loose papers -- cases and briefs and memos and articles -- swirl around me, until eventually the coppery bitter smell is gone and all that is left is the air of the city, forcing itself inside this new unexpected home I have created.

That's what I end up thinking about, being alone in the office on weekends or at night. There are some benefits in realizing you're the only one around. Obviously, you can bring reading materials to the restroom with impunity. Yet eventually my thoughts always turn to this kind of thing: the rooms I haven't seen, the hallways I can't master, and the constant churning sound of the elevator shaft, rising up from someplace unfamiliar into the the office we think we know.

Boy, this turned out kind of weird, didn't it?

Inspiration

Two things:

At hip hop tonight, as people were getting tired and frustrated with not getting it right, not being as smooth and sharp as we all wanted to be, our teacher watched us from the front, sitting on her haunches against the mirror. "Think of when people tell you, 'no, you can't,'" she said quietly. "This is when you say, 'oh yes, I can.'" There was a murmur of assent, and then we did it, tight and razor-sharp. Turning over her words in my mind, thinking about how the last few weeks have been, I almost got a little emotional, somehow.

Later I was at Chipotle picking up some dinner on my way home. I was sweaty but jubilant. As I stood in line one of the girls behind the counter was talking about me casually to a coworker. "I like him," she said to her colleague as she cut lettuce or something. She saw me looking at her and smiled. "You look like you're on a talk show!" This was perplexing. "Like, 'General Hospital'!" Apparently my devastating combination of bland good looks and big teeth adds up to a possible career in daytime television. That's cool, though -- I'll take it where I can get it.

Oh yes, I can.

Signals

You know I'm stressed at work when I start yelling at pedestrians, and dang if it didn't happen today. Earlier this afternoon L and I were on our way up to Central Park for an eight-mile run, and we were waiting for the light to change at 7th & Grove so we could continue up 7th, towards the subway. We stood there waiting patiently for the light to change so we could walk. There were cars waiting to cross in front of us. Then these two moon-faced chicks start wandering through the intersection, ignoring both the stoplight and the "Don't Walk" icon shining steadily before them. One of them had her nose buried in a guidebook and the other one was looking for traffic on the one-way street from the wrong direction. Before I could stop myself, I was talking.

"Be careful, that car's going to hit you," I said, pointing to the car a foot from their calves, which was patiently waiting for them to cross so that it could move on its green light. I was sort of hoping the driver would honk, but he didn't.

"Thanks," one of the girls replied listlessly.

"I can't believe that," L said, shaking her head.

"I know!" I replied. "How can they be so oblivious! They're the reason traffic is so horrible--"

"No, I can't believe you," L said, clarifying her point. "Why were you talking to them?"

"Because they were being stupid," I said patiently. "This is a community issue."

I explained how pedestrians have to share the road too, and how there's a time and place for jaywalking, but L did not seem particularly interested in my points, even though I felt they were strong. But it was a helpful reminder that yelling at pedestrians is an indicator that I need to manage my stress in new and different ways.

Merry ways

This was the weekend that opened up the springtime, the possibility that this long bleak winter might someday come to an end. On Saturday morning L had to go to work early in the Bronx, so I ventured forth to the Union Square Farmers' Market on my own, armed with a few canvas bags and a very detailed list. The walk up was very pleasant, strolling in just a fleece, feeling the sun on my face and listening to the new Ryan Leslie album on my ipod. A strung-out looking man on the corner of 5th and 11th was trying to flag me down, and at first I was determined to avoid him, but then I decided to give it a go (it was daylight after all, and I can throw a punch or two (theoretically)). Turns out he was a foreign tourist, eastern European, and he needed directions to Ground Zero. Proud of myself for being so helpful and non-judgmental, I set him off towards his destination and continued along my merry way.

The crowds at the farmers market had not yet descended when I arrived around eleven. I meandered through the stalls, gathering up carrots, eggs, two brown paper bags of mushrooms, and some yogurt and milk. Vendors were selling cherry blossom branches with the buds just starting to grow, and there were many more apples than I expected to see. I stopped at Trader Joe's for wine and made my way home, talking to my mom as I lugged everything back.

When L finally came home, we went up to Central Park for a nice long seven mile run. She's training for a half marathon for her birthday in late April, and being the kind of husband who enjoys spending time with his wife and has seen plenty of episodes of well-intentioned trainers hollering at the people on "The Biggest Loser" until spittle is gathering at the corners of their mouths, I decided she needed my help.

The Park was full of people jogging along the road, families meandering along with their kids, and hateful bikers zooming along like they think they're Lance Armstrong. L and I have never really run together, based on significant differentials in leg length and speed, but we thought we'd give it a try. I tried to run a little slower than usual, a nice steady jog so I could follow her lead. I haven't run more than five miles in a really long time, and was anxious about how this would go.

Well, it was fantastic. Although we were going a little faster than L was accustomed to, it was really wonderful to run through this beautiful park with her by my side. The place was vibrant, full of life, like the whole city turned out to celebrate the first spring weekend. Sacramental. Running at a nice easy pace, anticipating the familiar hills and sights along the path, I thought a lot about all time I have spent running that loop. So many sense memories in the pavement, remembering songs I used to listen to or specific instances where I found that perfect alchemy of physical exertion and natural beauty and a moment of clear-mindedness. It's happened before, and it happened there.

After we finished our 7.4 miles I was shocked to find that I felt like I could continue. I was proud of my wife and really happy that we spent that last hour or so running alongside each other, buddies on the road, like everywhere else.

The weekend continued along a similar simple, restorative trajectory. We ordered in both nights, watched television, read a lot. The burdens and stress of work, which weighed heavily on my shoulders this week, melted with each moment in the sunshine, each glance to my left to see my wife beside me.

Today I enjoyed a couple afternoon drinks with Ashesh at Wogie's, and as I told him about some of the work stuff that had caused me so much worry this week, I thought about everything for a moment, and said, "I have a very rich life." And on weekends like this it feels like everything opens up.

On Facebook

After the initial euphoria wore off (Friends from high school! What's my status right now? Ooh, photos!) Facebook now feels like more square footage of the internet that demands attention. God forbid my status go unreported.

There have been a lot of small pleasures in this thing, though -- I like the quick public scribblings on people's walls; the status update really is kind of cool for those of us reluctant to dive into the shameless narcissism of Twitter (not like a blog is much better, though, admittedly); and it really is great to see all my high school friends again. What would Facebook be without high school friends?

There seems to be a limit, though. I was trying to think of the right simile and I can't quite reach it, but to me Facebook is like you and everyone you know, standing in their own individual glass box like a phone booth. Somebody has taken all these glass boxes and lined them up in a circle. When you log on to Facebook, the lights in the room come on, or the people who lined you up in the circle reveal new glass boxes to you, and suddenly you realize -- hey! It's your friends! You see your friends and loved ones, beloved, well-missed, and you knock on your glass and get their attention and wave and smile at them. They make eye contact and smile back. You bonk on your glass, and they do the same. So you look at each other for a little bit, and then -- hey! There's somebody else! So you turn your attention to that person, and you wave and smile and mouth the words "how are you," which fogs up your glass a little. And after a little while you realize that although you can see everyone, and from here they all look great, and they can hold up little blurbs about themselves and their lives now, you still can't quite touch them or hug them or dap it out. But you're still in your glass box, staring at everyone you grew up with, some people you thought you had lost to time and distance, and you don't dare look away.

Ok, you win

L and I joined Facebook. So if you want to be internet friends, drop me a line. This should be amusing.

29

On Wednesday, I turned 29. That means it's birthday week, and although the actual day already passed, the party train rolls ever forward. Tonight L and I are going to see "The 39 Steps" on Broadway, and then tomorrow is poker night with a bunch of friends and my brother-in-law.

So far 29 is feeling pretty good. I like the oddness of it, the irregularity, the sharpness. 29 seems to be more about anticipating 30 than reflecting the end of the 20s. And the 20s, for all of their wild freedom and unexpected mistakes and dawning awareness, are maybe starting to feel a little ragged. Not that I'm in a rush to hit 30 and then begin the slide into fatherhood, mortgages, and relaxed-fit pants. But I do feel like I am entering a new phase of life somehow, a phase where I want a bigger apartment and where I get really excited by having new ties to wear to work. Although, before I write myself completely off, I will also note that I spent 90 minutes of my birthday at hip hop, where we were bouncing around to house music and warming up to "Rump Shaker," a song that moved me as deeply and undeniably at 13 as it does now at 29.

Concert review: Ne-Yo!

Last night L and I ventured forth to Radio City to catch the big Ne-Yo concert, featuring opening acts Jazmine Sullivan and Musiq Soulchild. Given my recent lapse into middle age, I was exhausted by 7 pm on Sunday night, and not really excited to head into midtown to see a concert, but let me tell you, dear reader, that this concert was the shit.

It's hard to avoid comparisons to the John Legend show we saw a few weeks ago, so here's the breakdown. This show had tons of energy, the crowd was whooping and clapping the whole time, Ne-Yo had more charisma in his jauntily-cocked hat than earnest ol' John Legend tried to wring out of every song, and the crowd itself was demographically less diverse: mostly well-dressed black people, a surprising number of Asians, and very few white people. Like, a lot of people went to see "Madea Goes To Jail" on Saturday (which I totally want to see) and then made it to the Ne-Yo show on Sunday.

I went to this show thinking I was a moderate Ne-Yo fan, but sitting there in the upper mezzanine, singing out loud so the three fun black girls to my left would know that I am down, I realized that I really love his music. It just has this polish and sense of fullness and completion that I love. His lyrics are simple but insightful, and you can't beat the production. His voice is high but not reedy, but a little further up than I can sing comfortably, unless I decide that I really need to break my larynx with some Ne-Yo emotion. Hearing all of his songs in one fell swoop gave me a huge appreciation for his body of work.

The other amazing thing: Mary J. Blige was at the show, sitting in the third row! I spent a lot of the concert watching the back of her big round blonde hairdo, seeing how she was enjoying the show. "Look, Mary J. is rocking out! She's really into 'Closer'!" Or: "Does Mary J. like this song? He better keep her happy."

Ne-Yo had four dancers, two guys and two girls, and they were excellent. He moved with an almost robotic precision, and his moves were a little flashier and more dramatic than your typical hip hop, but it fit his classic aesthetic. The girls did some sexy grinding all over the place, and they even had this Janet Jackson bit, where they did some awesome moves with scarves straight from her "Alright" video in 1989. I was surprised that I knew that, but I did.

Ne-Yo's stage was pretty basic; a staircase near his band, and a light wall behind him. For one of his more treacly songs he had dry ice blasting on stage from the wings, where it tumbled off the stage and into the VIP seating. "I hope Mary J. doesn't mind all that dry ice," I worried. "I don't feel like she would be into that." It was up around her shoulders at that point.

The main thing about this show was that the energy never lagged. The songs moved quickly, no endless interludes, no uninteresting solos by the bassist, and plenty of good patter. Ne-Yo was calling out individual women in the audience, complementing their outfits or their weaves, and he passed out roses to a few lucky audience members. I didn't get one, but L didn't either. Also, he sang a quick medley of the hit songs he's written for other people ("Irreplaceable," "Take a Bow," "Let Me Love You," "Spotlight,") and I liked them more after hearing his takes.

We arrived at the concert in time to catch Jazmine Sullivan's last song, her hit "Need U Bad," which I like ok. She had a good arrangement and was really wailing it out, on her knees in the center of the stage having a "down on my knees/begging you please" Jodeci moment, with her backup singers keeping time for her.

I was really into Musiq's first two albums, but I kind of lost track of his career in the last couple years. To me he is part of that male R&B team that I love and live by: him, Eric Benet, D'Angelo, R. Kelly, and others. His voice is rich and he sings in the church R&B tradition I can only appreciate from a distance. He was having a great time on stage, singing and dancing and skipping around, rocking out in his three-piece suit in front his all-female band. Although I must note that I didn't like the sounds his background singers made, and one of them really did look like Star Jones.

I'm listening to Ne-Yo as I write this, and I had a really long day today, feeling worried and insecure at work, having a hell of a workout at the gym and a long cold walk home, and now my wife is in bed and I'm sitting here typing, winding down my day and my thoughts, but I find myself getting hyped up again, just thinking about this show. It was so damn good. My ears were ringing and my voice was scratchy as we filed out of Radio City. Ne-Yo and his colleagues had us clapping and singing and snapping for a night -- and if it's good enough for Mary J. Blige, you know it's good enough for me.

The good ship Vodka Tonic

In addition to what I was thinking about the other night, I wanted to remember some of the great things from this weekend. I saw my first manatees. I ate about a pound of shrimp along with a beautiful cold river of Coronas. More key lime pie than recommended, and so much grouper (which is a kind of fish) that when my sister telephoned and asked for me, my grandfather said, "Ol' Grouper's still asleep!" because my nickname now is Grouper.

Also, when we started discussing boat names, here is what three of us came up with: My grandfather would name his boat Vodka Tonic; I would name my boat The Rusty L; and L would name her boat Leaky M.

Time

"Old age is hell," my grandmother said. There were ghosts with us this weekend in Florida. We talked about my Aunt Evvy, who recently passed away, and another close relative of my grandparents who underwent an unexpected heart operation this week.

"No one's ever beaten it, so what can you do," my grandfather said. They talked about losing people you love and have lived with for decades, how it feels to be at an age when your close family members and friends are succumbing to their years. How it feels to live inside an old body, when certain words or names are just beyond the tip of the tongue and when each trip on the stairs demands a firm grip on the barrister. L and I would jog up the stairs into the condo: "you're just showin off," she would say.

And they said, "you'll get there one day," and for a moment I couldn't wait to be elderly, to understand. And then I thought of what must happen to reach that point: the children to be born, the careers to rise and fall, the mistakes and the wounds and the triumphs and the thousands of moments I would not dare give up. How many evenings of late-summer light, how many Christmases, how many kisses and tears and cheap or genuine or inexplicable laughs. I felt ashamed for wishing to skip so far ahead. And I felt chastened by the lack of any kind of guarantee of making it to that far place down the road. How lucky to walk these steps with them, and to have a good woman beside me as we peer down our own path, unknowable and unseen.

I feel really complicated right now, like I don't know if my heart is bursting or breaking.

Placeholder

Ok, it's been a while. I've had a lot of blog-related guilt over the last week and a half, but in my defense last week was extremely busy. It was also horrible, work-wise, but maybe now things are returning to something like normal.

So here are a couple of things. Last Thursday we went to see John Legend at Radio City, and he was great. I forgot how beautiful Radio City is; the great golden archway over the stage, the art deco contours, and the grandeur of the lobby. I love the idea that that great cavernous space is carved into just another innocuous midtown building. We had such a great time that we got tickets to go see Ne-Yo at Radio City in a couple weeks -- I am really excited.

On Thursday morning we're going to Naples to see my grandparents for a long weekend of fun in the sun (...and dinners at 5:30). This is our third time; the first two can be revisited here and here.

The last thing is that I've noticed some new graffiti around the neighborhood, on utility boxes on light posts and scrawled on the subway: "Papa Loves Baby." I don't know who Papa is, or Baby, but I know that I kind of like it.

Champion of the world

Seven pm found me at hip hop class, at Alvin. I've realized that if I change into my gym clothes at work, and quickly dart from my office to the elevators without being spotted by anyone wearing business attire, then I can nimbly walk over to 55th and 9th in about fifteen minutes.

This was my third time at this class, and the teacher, who is awesome and pretty funny about the whole thing, was playing some straight-up Usher: "Take You There," great beat, catchy tune, exactly what I was hoping for. There were some moves where I could really get into it, add a little swag or aggression, make it look sharp or loose or fluid, however it needs to be done. About halfway through the class I realized the teacher was watching me, with a half smile on her face. After the combo, she stopped and said to me (in front of the other 20 or 30 people in the room): "I am so glad you are taking my class. I've been watching you since day one, you don't know it but I have, and you're all" -- and here she started rocking my dance face, thrusting her hips and swatting away at some imaginary partner -- "I love it! So masculine! I love your attitude, I am so glad you're here."

Well. I think for me, and perhaps many other men, having a woman like that compliment your masculinity basically opens the floodgates. After that I was trying to do good, but not too good, and just rolling with the beat.

A little while later she was watching me again, and I saw her, so I was trying hard to not screw up (since overconfidence and overthinking is the end of me every time) and afterward she came up to me for a pound: "Yeeesssssss! You do it!" A couple minutes later she had everybody change directions, away from the mirrors, and she told me and a few others to go up front, where we were basically leading everybody else. Then she made us go up front again, once it was time to face the mirror.

As the class drew to a close, after a few more rounds of our eight-counts, when my heart was pounding and I was good and sweaty, after she gave me a few more tips ("push your arms out -- it looks cool the way you're doing it, but for tonight just push your arms out"), she spoke to the whole group: "Don't think too hard, because when you think too hard you lose it. Find the nuances in this song -- this dude [pointing to me] is rocking it out [here she started working my dance face again, people kind of laughed], he's doing him and grooving out...He's feeling the nuances of the beat and not worried about the counts." She went on to highlight somebody else too, but I was not listening that hard. I felt that weird mixture of pride and embarrassment -- pride that you are doing good and doing it with passion, tempered by a little embarrassment that you're in the room to to begin with.

I have really been missing the hip hop element of my life, and tonight was spectacular. I didn't think I would be able to go to class because of work, but I'm so thankful I made it over. In some ways I feel like such a fish out of water at Alvin: too male, too old, too lawyerly, too married, too white. But to lose those preoccupations and just revel in the moment -- and then to have some outside validation that yes, I get it and yes, I belong here -- it makes everything else feel real and true and authentic.

Old white married lawyers doing eight-counts, what?

'The Stories of John Cheever'

Impeccable. I have been reading these stories for weeks now, and I finally finished them tonight. As I read I tried to think about what kind of holistic picture Cheever was creating; what this body of work (representing more than thirty years of a writing life) was conveying. The quick answer, boiled down to a near-cliche, is "suburban angst." There was plenty of that (men in desperate affairs with their neighbors' wives; women crying out for a life beyond the kitchen and the nursery; the patter of conversation waiting for the morning train; the alcohol-soaked evenings) and I loved it. Many of his stories took place on a few streets in the Manhattan suburb of Shady Hill, featuring a familiar litany of family names ("The Farquarsons, the Beardens, the Bentleys...").

The greater thing, though, was his portrayal of universal emotions in such a specific time and place. At our present cultural moment the domestic life of the 1950s is treated with a knowing wink and nod, but Cheever won't let you escape with that kind of pat analysis. His characters are the same tangled mess of contradictions, jealousies, desires, aspirations, and disappointments that we are today. This book made me think of my grandparents and their young adulthoods. Although at times Cheever veered into the coldness and near-irony of "Revolutionary Road," over the course of this volume he was able to flesh out something richer, more alive, more true.

I can't imagine what it's like, as a writer, to have thirty years of work in one fat, proud volume. I wished I could have known when each of the stories were written, for a better sense of context. Appearing chronologically, the first half of the book seemed stronger to me. The stories were set in New York apartment buildings with elevator men and servants' entrances, and then moved to the post-war utopia of Shady Hill. In the last section of the book, Cheever the technician was in full force, with stories frequently set in Italy, with disarmingly explicit sex and unmannered cursing -- it was a shock. It seemed as though Cheever's moment had passed, and that he knew as much.

I was tempted to devour this book, but I tried to pause between each story, to take a moment to consider it as its own independent thing, before diving in to the next. Individually, these stories are impeccable and beautifully written and jarringly true; collectively, they are miraculous -- dozens of voices crying out for something more or something genuine, cacophonous yet harmonious. I really loved this book. Cheever was the genesis.

...Hello, 44

Such a sense of excitement in the air this morning -- pure electricity. I was sitting in a conference room with my colleagues, watching the proceedings and listening to the roar of the crowd from Rockefeller Plaza. After the speech most people filed out, but a few of us stayed to hear the poem and the benediction and the national anthem. During the national anthem I was a little surprised to find that all of us were standing.

As far as the speech goes, it wasn't as smooth or soaring as some of his others, but it was forceful and inspiring and realistic. He talked to us like adults. He didn't sugarcoat, but he reminded us of our aspirations. There were a few moments when I felt a lump in my throat -- not only at the words that were said, but at the faces in the crowd, in the fact that so many of our friends and countrymen wanted to endure the cold to witness this occasion. What a fortunate time to be alive. What a wonderful country we are blessed to live in.

I was thinking about how in some parts of the nation, people still keep photos of Bobby Kennedy or JFK or Martin Luther King, Jr. on the wall. I never understood why someone would put the image of a national leader, someone they had probably never even met, inside their home. Today, though, I think I do understand. I've never had as much respect and admiration for a president as I do today. He is an able leader and he is someone to emulate. President Obama: I am so thankful that he is at the helm.

Goodbye, 43...

Dear Mr. President Bush,

Well, thank God it's finally over, huh? I don't know who's more relieved, you or the rest of the country. I wanted to send you a brief note to wish you well and get a couple of things off my chest. But I won't say too much, because I don't want to get agitated and my mom doesn't like it when political discussions get heated.

Keep in mind that I write as someone who once supported you. I voted for you in 2000, and I even supported the war in Iraq. I wasn't totally on board with it at the time, but I trusted you and (perhaps more importantly) your office. By 2004 this trust was long gone, mind you, but there was a time it existed.

Like you I have a few "disappointments" with your administration. In addition, I have a few "things that make me angry" and "things that are so frustrating, so willfully misguided and cynical, that I don't know whether to cry bitter, bitter tears or just grit my teeth until my jaws ache."

My overall complaint about how everything happened, and this is an idea that to me encompasses the planning and execution of the war, the torture of prisoners, the signing statements, the aftermath of Katrina, the irresponsible tax cuts, the economic meltdown, the vilification of your political opponents, and the accumulation of unlawful power in the executive branch, is a sense of fundamental dishonesty. You never told us the truth about any of it. You were always trying to gloss over problems, to tell us that missions were accomplished and that we should go back to our shopping while the earth burned. As president you worked to appease your base (rich people, and maybe later on evangelicals) but you told us you were working for everyone. The reason that no one has paid attention to you in the last two years is that no one believes you. We don't trust you. You never gave us a reason to trust you.

You could have asked us to sacrifice after September 11th, and boy, we would have. We wanted to. Remember that telethon with all the celebrities, when the country spent a night weeping in front of the tv and opening our wallets, because it was the only thing we thought we could do? That should have been the tip of the iceberg. We were ready to change our lives, to strive for something bigger, and all we wanted was direction. We just needed you to say the word. But you said nothing.

So that's my beef with you. Also, one other small thing: you and your friends have spent the last month crowing about how you've kept us safe all this time. My question (and maybe this is more of a quibble) is, are you including September 11th in that statement, or what? Because you were president then, and you were receiving briefings with names like, "Oh Shit, Osama's Going to the Airport." Now, I am not blaming you for September 11th -- I am most definitely not -- but I am saying that I don't know if it's right to be bragging about how safe we are thanks to you, when September 11th remains such an open wound. I think about terrorism every time I go to work, riding the elevator to the 24th floor of my landmark building. Every night when I leave I thank God I made it out yet again. You may be leaving office, but the threat has not diminished.

That's all I should say, I guess. Despite everything I have moments of sympathy for you, and you seem like a nice person, until you start teasing reporters in jerky ways. Also, I have an abiding affection for Laura Bush, because she reminds me of a frumpier, more docile version of my mom. And, your daughters aren't bad looking. Now you get to go back to Texas and the country gets to begin a long process of repair. Thank God we've bottomed out.

Safe travels,

MKD

That's a good look

I felt the need to change the template of the blog. True, everyone and their mother is going for the minimal look (including my wife, my best man, my former work buddy, my cousin-in-law and many others), but it made sense to me as well. Even though millions of other people's blogs look basically exactly like mine, I do feel that this stripped-down look fits where I am right now. I also like the standard font the text appears in, and the simplicity of the blank, white page. It makes me feel like a writer.

So this is the new look, and we'll try it on for size. Minimalism. Simplicity. Clarity.

Flight 1549

What a story: on an otherwise inconspicuous January afternoon, a plane takes off from LaGuardia en route to Charlotte. Somewhere above the City of New York, something happens, a "bird strike." Moments later the plane is sinking into the sky above the Hudson, and then, with one hell of a splash, this jet is in the water, nose up, tail down. As commuter ferries and rescue boats dart towards the airliner, shaken passengers emerge to wait on the submerged wings, seemingly standing on water. One hundred and fifty five people exit the fallen plane, women and children first, and everyone is okay -- as okay as one can be. At first the tail of the jet juts upwards from the water, like some bizarre shark fin; as the afternoon progresses and the rear half of the plane begins its inevitable descent, only the nose of the plane is visible, peeking over the surface of the water. I thought it looked like a puppy, plaintive, out of place.

There is something jarring about seeing a jet plane in your local river. What was I doing while a smart and brave pilot was saving lives? What was I doing while scared and sensible people rescued themselves? I was reading the internet and waiting for work, wholly unaware of the drama playing itself out a mile or so away.

Beyond a sense of awe and gratitude, this incident raises questions: Are they going to pull the jet out of the river? I already have a vision of a sunken, moldy plane housing scores of fish and crabs and plant life. Will everybody get their luggage back? Who knew that bird strikes were a regular (and somewhat inevitable) threat to air travel? And, given that this plane was flying the route my sister takes to visit us, will she ever dare fly to New York City again? ("One bird strike and you're out.")