Tales From the Big City

New Big City

2011-03-18T17:09:00.000-05:00

I'm now living in the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex and the adjustment has been slow.

Things I've noticed.

Never try to compare any brand of ice cream to Blue Bell. You'll lose.

Owning a convertible in Dallas is much more fun than it is in New York.

When your car battery dies in Dallas, it's dead. It doesn't simply need a boost. It's dead and you need a new battery.

For a state where every thing is supposed to be large, there are an awful lot of VW Beatles and Mazda Miatas on the road.

If good fences make for good neighbors, the Dallas subdivisions have some outstanding neighbors. (There are fences, and then there are bulworks)

If your grass needs to be cut, or your house cleaned, or fence stained and you don't know who to call, just check out the pile of business cards that have been left on your doorstep. There are a lot of nice people willing to come to your house to help you.

"Bless your heart" isn't really a sincere wish for the Lord to bless you.

An Ode to a Lawn Mower

2010-05-23T22:08:00.007-05:00

When I would visit my father in the spring each year we would have the same conversation. "Dad, I think you need to get a new lawn mower." When I would look at the machine it was clear to me that the walk behind power mower, which he purchased from K-Mart, had seen much better days. The paint was coming off. The wheels wobbled. The bar that you hold, or else the mower shuts off, was stuck in the on position. Yet, every year, when I would attempt to start the mower, it would start on the first pull.

My father died in November of 2004. In the summer of 2006 I sold his house. Most of the contents of the house were either given away, or placed in a dumpster. It took a lot of dumpsters. He liked to keep stuff. Some of the stuff in the house I brought with me to my new house in North Chili. I was determined not to let the new house become as cluttered as dad's house had become, but I needed to keep some of his stuff. For example, at that point I didn't have any lawn and garden tools. After all, I was living in an apartment in Manhattan. I kept all of the tools, and then I hired a guy to cut the grass.

This worked great until the middle of the summer. The guy cutting my grass left me a note. He had found a full-time job, so he didn't need to cut my grass anymore. Because I was in a bind I tried something radical. I decided to cut my own lawn. I pulled out dad's lawnmower fully expecting that I would need to go to Home Depot to buy a new machine. The stupid machine started.

Well, it finally happened. The machine has failed. I tried to fix it, but it appears that my father had "modified" the poor thing so that the replacement part I bought wouldn't work. What had he done? He had fixed a wheel by adding a bolt. The bolt was too long, so he shorted the cutting blade using a grinder. When I installed the new blade it made a lot of very loud, angry noises.

I put the mower at the end of the driveway to be picked up by the trash collection company. As you can expect, someone took it within hours. I have no doubt they are now grinding a blade to fit.

Central Park Medical Unit

2010-02-28T21:39:00.004-05:00

Today the New York Post had a story about the ambulance corps with which I volunteer in NYC. Here is the video of the story.

New Jersey Diner

2010-01-11T22:29:00.003-05:00

This past weekend I took my mother and father in-law back to their home in New Jersey. This involved a drive of six and half hours in a Chevy Trailblazer. The good news was that the weather was great. The bad news was that our bladders were all on different schedules. This means we needed to stop at every McDonald's on the route. The good news is that I know where every McDonald's on the route is located. Most are programed into my GPS.

Right now McDonald's is having a movie tie in promotion. They are giving away a miniature talking Chipmunks. They have six different characters. We have now collected all six. In our case we had to pay for them because we didn't buy the Happy Meal. We also made McDonald's crew members search for the characters we hadn't yet collected. It is a little disturbing, I suppose, for a middle aged, fat, bald, white guy to be asking for the "Britney chipmunk", but it was a long trip and I had set some specific goals.

In North Bergen, New Jersey, that evening, I was invited out to dinner with my wife's family. We went to the "Coach House Diner". Frankly, it was a slightly disturbing experience. First, upon arrival, we were greeted at the door by the staff. This was no ordinary greeting. This was a very personal greeting. It appears the in-laws are frequent guests. The servers each stopped by the table to say hello. I didn't know my in-laws were such good tippers.

Pumpkin and I have a couple of diners we frequent upstate, but as of yet we are not that famous with the staff. We tried to go to one of the diners for dinner last night but were disappointed to discover that it closed at 9:00 pm. Are you kidding me? Last week I tried ordering a pizza at 10:30 pm. Again, no luck. I called five pizza shops and none were open. How can this be? It is at times like this I miss living full-time in Manhattan.

In the future however I have discovered a safety fall back. The clerk at the local Byrne Dairy store (convenience store) tells me they will make me a pizza up until 11:30 pm. It is always good to have a fall back plan.

Snow

2009-12-21T17:17:00.002-05:00

I get grief because I spend more time in Rochester than in the Big City. "What about the cold?", "What about the snow?"

Yesterday I cleared a foot of snow off of my car, and it was parked on West 54th Street. At least in Rochester I have a garage. By the time I got most of the snow off the car my hands were so cold I couldn't feel my fingers. I discovered several hours later I had a pair of gloves in the car. I just couldn't find them under all of the other stuff.

People don't really understand that, as a matter of practical reality, the cold and wet weather of Rochester really doesn't bother the residents much. They go from their house to their car and from their car to their job. They aren't in the weather much. On the other hand, those living in the Big City stand in the weather waiting for a bus.

When it snows like it did on Saturday, I ENJOY riding the subway.

One aspect of dealing with snow in the Big City that I find frustrating is the fact that I can't reach highway speed when I'm there. In Rochester I can clear most of the snow off of the car by driving 70 miles an hour on the thruway.

So, for those of you who think upstate New York is a winter wasteland, remember that, while there is very little mass transit, and we are warming the earth at a feverish rate with our SUVs, we are not standing in front of the Oyster Bar waiting for the M10 bus.

Parades (again)

2009-11-16T14:46:00.004-05:00

I love parades. I love the bands, the floats, the excited crowd gathered together to watch the parade. This is what I thought for many years. I have asked Pumpkin to remind me, the next time I say “let’s go watch the parade” that I love the CONCEPT of the parade; the parade itself, not so much.

On the weekend of Halloween we were in the Big City. I had volunteered to work with Central Park Medical Unit (cpmu.com) for the NYC Marathon on November 1. I truly enjoy working EMS at the Marathon as it puts into perspective for me why all things should be done in moderation. (Congratulations. You just ran 26.2 miles. Let’s go to the hospital).

Because were in the city on Saturday evening I thought to myself, “I’ve never been to the Halloween Parade in Greenwich Village. We should do that.” Like many of my ideas, this needed, but did not receive, more thought.

Saturday afternoon Pumpkin returned to the apartment from her visit with her family at approximately 4pm. The parade was due to begin at 7pm. I said, hey, let’s get there early so we can find a good spot. Pumpkin, having done some on-line research, informed me that there was a “street fair” on Madison Avenue from 57^th street to 42^nd Street. Maybe we can stop there first. So, off we went.

The walk to the street fair was fairly short; only three “avenue blocks”. When we arrived the first vendor we found was a Filipino barbeque. Hense, lunch/dinner. We then walked the length of the street fair to 42^nd street. Street fairs are common events in the Big City on the weekends. I’ve discussed them previously. If you have forgotten, these are a gathering of vendors selling crap. The week before I bought two knit caps (or as I recently learned, they are called toque), two t-shirts, a line splitter for headphones so that Pumpkin and I can watch DVDs of CSI in the airport as well as sausage on a roll and roasted corn on the cob. There is nothing of great value being sold at these street fairs. They exist only to further the commercial interests of the vendors, and to screw up traffic.

Upon arriving at 42^nd street I decided, without consulting Pumpkin, that it was only 28 more blocks to the parade, so we should walk. In this case, 20 blocks equals a mile.

When we arrived at 14^th street we walked over to sixth avenue, where we spotted a McDonalds with second floor windows overlooking the parade route, with no one taking up those spaces. We immediately went in and ordered another meal. We we arrived upstairs we found access to the window area blocked. It appears the management had decided to save that space for the friends and family of the management of the McDonalds.

Really, what was I thinking? If you own prime real estate in Manhattan you don’t just let some dolt sit there and watch the parade. Besides, if the space had been available to the public someone was likely going to get hurt. In hindsight, they made a good decision.

So, we stand outside on the sidewalk to wait to watch the parade. We found a spot of sidewalk that gave us a reasonably good view above the crowd that had already gathered. It was approximately 6 pm. At about 6:30 the crowd got much thicker. At about 6:45, the sidewalk was impassable. We stood our ground. At about 6:50 the cops moved the crowd barriers about 10 feet into the street, moving the entire crowd with the barriers. We stood our ground. At 7:15 we have no sign of the parade, which has started approximately 16 blocks south of us. At 7:30, still no parade, but no it has started to drizzle. Pumpkin is now leaning on me, and I am leaning on the frame of a “sidewalk shed” The shed is giving us some protection from the drizzle, so we are lucky in that way. There is a bolt on the frame of the shed sticking in my back. There is no place to move, so I’m stuck. At approximately 7:45 the parade arrives. The sky opens up and it begins to pour. Everyone in front of us produces an umbrella, so now we cannot see the street. The wind begins to blow so now we have the rain in our faces. A change of plans is made and we head, as best as was possible, to the nearest subway station.

The station in question was the 14^th Street station, which is one of the few stations where you have to enter on the correct side of the street to get the correct train. We were on the wrong side of the street, and it was not going to be possible to cross the street. We boarded a downtown bound train, even though we wanted to go uptown. This was fun as the train was over crowded, everyone on the train appeared to have just come in from the rain and is fair to say that many of them had been consuming adult beverages. When we arrived at the next station, 4^th street, and the doors opened, we popped out like bread from a toaster.

At 4^th Street you can change directions. We took a train to 42^nd street where we got off and went to see a movie “Saw VI”, which is what Pumpkin had wanted to do from the start of the evening.

So, the new rule is, I love parades. I will just, in the future, enjoy them from a distance.

A Walk In The Woods

2009-09-18T15:03:00.010-05:00

There are hazards to being at home during the day. Pumpkin and I are heading to Houston tomorrow. Although we have not had much rain in the past few weeks, I needed to cut the grass. I water the front yard, so it continues to grow. Doing this makes no sense, as it only adds to my work load, but I do it anyway. When I had the irrigation system installed I assumed it was required for suburban living. They don't issue instructions when you move to the suburbs like they do when you move to the city.

Today's story is about meeting the neighbors.

I was in the middle of the job of cutting the back yard's grass when I looked up and saw a man wearing a floppy hat, holding a walking stick in his right hand and in his left hand was a small child. I turned off the lawn mower and said "That child isn't mine".

The gentleman asked if I could help. He and his grandson had been taking a walk in the woods and now did not know where they were, or how to return home. I asked where he lived, and he said "I don't know. Let me think.".

Once in awhile I hear on the scanner a call for the police to look for a senior citizen who has wandered away from home. Today he found me.

After a few seconds he remembered the name of the street on which he lives. I'm embarrassed to say that I needed to call the fire department's dispatcher to ask where the street was located. After all, this is both my fire and ambulance district. You would think I should know this. To tell you the truth, when I'm responding to an emergency on a fire truck or an ambulance I use a device called a map. John the dispatcher gave me good directions to the gentleman's home.

For the sake of this story, the gentleman's name is John, and the little boy's name is Timmy. John is 80 and is retired from Kodak. Timmy is three, and likes to take walks with Pa Pa. Timmy spends the day with Pa Pa and his grandmother while his mother works. When I first saw Timmy I thought he was a girl. He has a style of haircut that is best described as "mop head". He was also wearing a hoodie. I learned all this as I walked with them back to their house. I have owned a house in this neighborhood since July of 2006. I didn't even know that we had woods, let alone that you could get lost in them. I have since looked at a satellite image of the area, and the woods are actually large enough that I'm not planning on going into them without a compass, flashlight, sleeping bag, snack and tent.

John, Timmy and I walked back to their house. About two blocks before arriving one of John's neighbors pulled up in her car and got out. She had been sent by John's wife to look for the wanderers. My job was done. Now I needed to walk back home.

I had big plans for my day, and these plans did not include a cardio walk through the Town of Chili. They also didn't include time for me to report on my activities on this blog, so it seems my time is flexible.

My life in the suburbs has been largely uneventful. The neighbors next door just removed their above ground pool so that they can build an in ground pool. That was exciting. They gave me three hostas that they had to dig up. I planted them today. That was fun. When I'm cutting the grass someone I know might stop to say hello. Last week, when I was cutting the grass I got to meet the new dog that has moved in two houses down. That was nice. It's rare that I actually get to help someone. I'm glad that, in the suburbs, if you are 80 and in the the early stages of Alzheimer's (his words, not mine), you can approach a fat, bald, white guy in shorts and a sweaty t-shirt to ask for help getting home. I would like to think you could also do that in the Big City. Chances are, given the opportunity, most people would walk John and Timmy home.

I'm certain you would.

Harvest Time

2009-08-30T22:06:00.003-05:00

When I was a kid my father would warn me about the hazards of living where we did. Whenever he would park the car downtown he would remind me to lock the doors. In the community where we lived, if your car was found unlocked and unattended you ran the risk of finding a grocery bag of zucchini when you returned.

This past week our next door neighbor knocked on the front door. Pumpkin answered to find our neighbor with a bunch of home grown produce. She only has a few plants on the side of her house, but it appears she underestimated the power of zucchini.

Pumpkin didn't know what to do with the zucchini. It was the size of a gallon of milk. I suggested she bake zucchini bread. She had not heard of such a thing. It appears that the Philippine diet does not include baked goods containing vegetables. Let's put this in perspective. This is the same culture that values bean and cheese ice cream. No kidding.

So, she looked up the recipe and baked two loaves of zucchini bread and a zucchini bundt cake. All of this is working out great for me. I get my vegetables and my sweets at the same time.

All this multicultural stuff seems to be a good thing.

Missed Opportunity

2009-07-15T00:35:00.001-05:00

When I left the apartment this morning I walked past some construction equipment on Broadway in front of the Ed Sullivan Theater. I remember saying to Andrew "it looks like they are doing something stupid on Letterman today".

The parking in my neighborhood is limited on the best of days. When the "Late Show" does something outside their theater/studio they usually eat up some of the available parking. They also usually block traffic on 53rd street, which is my route to and from the grocery store. It is just what happens in The Big City, and we get used to it. That doesn't mean we like it. Part of the attraction of The Big City to tourists is that they get to visit places that appear on television and in the movies. The prevailing thought among policy makers is that all of this disruption is good for the city's economy.

There is some debate as to how much economic impact film and television production has on New York City. Where there can be no debate however is the impact the Letterman show has on my nap time. If I try to take a snooze between 4:30 and 6:00 pm I run the risk of disrupted sleep. Usually the disruption is Letterman's interns warming up the studio audience while they are still standing on the sidewalk waiting to get into the theater. Occasionally it is crowd noise from the exterior activity.

Usually, when Letterman's show is doing one of these exterior shots it is so they can drop pumpkins off the roof of the building, or build a swimming pool on 53rd St. for synchronized swimming. I personally find this stuff amusing, unless it interrupts my life in some way. Today I was amused as I had already found a parking spot the previous evening. At about 8:00 AM this morning Andrew and I loaded his luggage into the Trailblazer. We then carried out of the apartment and loaded into the Trailblazer a computer desk I bought at IKEA in 2002, but have not yet assembled. While doing this I noticed the work being done to the marquee of the theater. I also noticed wires were being strung up crossing Broadway. There were a couple of scissor lifts being used and the parking spots on Broadway had the orange cones in place.

I was curious, but I was also in a hurry. Andrew needed to get to JFK to catch an airplane to South Africa, where he is going to school for the next five months. Normally I would have walked over to the workers and asked "what's Letterman doing now?". But the plane was due to leave at 11:30 and I had no idea how much traffic we were facing at the Queens-Midtown Tunnel. This is what distinguishes me as a responsible adult. It is my ability to suppress my need to know everything in order to help someone get to the airport. Sure, I could have put Andrew in a cab and said, hey, have a good trip. But no. That's not the kind of guy I am. I told Andrew's Aunt Sue and Uncle Greg I would take Andrew to the airport and see him off, and that's exactly what was going to happen.

So, Andrew and I went to the airport. We spent about 30 minutes on Second Avenue waiting to get into the Queens-Midtown Tunnel, which is about par for that time of day. Otherwise, the drive was uneventful. We arrived at Terminal 4 with plenty of time to spare. I saw Andrew walk through the security screening. (I assumed it was him. It was a tall, white teenager. From that distance, at my age, they all look the same). I then bought my overpriced banana nut muffin and headed for New Jersey. There I needed to pay Frank, the superintendent of the building where Pumpkin owns an apartment, for some repairs he is doing. I also needed to pick up a couple of bookcases the new tenant didn't want in the apartment.

With the Trailblazer now fully loaded I drove back to Rochester, where I had been most recently at 1:00 PM the previous day.

So, here is the timeline. I leave Rochester with Andrew and his luggage on Tuesday (yesterday) at 1:00 PM. We arrive at the apartment at 7:30 PM. We walk through Times Square and get dinner at Yoshinoya. (I don't recommend Yoshinoya. I go there because it is convenient, cheap for the neighborhood, and the food is reasonably healthy. The downside is that there are often panhandlers working the patrons).

Andrew and I walked back to the apartment, checked our email and that was it for the day.

That brings us to the activity on Broadway at 8:00 AM.

I had the option of staying in the city today and returning to Rochester tomorrow. That would have given me a chance to visit some friends. Unfortunately, I have an appointment with an auditor at the fire department tomorrow, so I returned to Rochester today. If I had stayed in the city today I would have discovered that Paul McCartney was playing on top of the theater's Marquee this afternoon. As it is, I watched the show on TV.

I'm not a huge fan of Paul McCartney. Still, it would have been cool to have seen him performing outside my front door.

When I speak to the auditor tomorrow I will be certain to let him know how happy I am to be there.

Date Night

2009-06-26T21:13:00.005-05:00

It is date night, and for our special night of the week I took Pumpkin to see "Transformers" on the IMAX screen. Show time was 7:00. We arrived at 6:45. The show was sold out. Not only that, even the 10:40 show was already sold out.

What?

This is Rochester, not Manhattan. In Manhattan they sell out showings of movies. This doesn't happen in Rochester. Ever.

IMAX is a wonderful thing. It appears in Rochester, it is a rare thing.

So, instead of seeing "Transformers", we saw "The Proposal". In this movie, a couple gets married to avoid deportation. There is no similarity between this plot and Pumpkin's and my relationship. Really. I'm serious.

Date night is important to me. What is ironic is that date night is not any different in Rochester than it is in Manhattan. We have dinner. We go a movie. We get desert. I'm not a creative person.

In Manhattan we usually go to the AMC 25 or the Regal 13. These are across the street from each other on 42nd Street. The most direct way for us to get there is to walk through Times Square. Usually that is hard to do, as there are a lot of tourists on the sidewalks, going to and from the theaters (i.e. Wicked, Jersey Boys, Mama Mia, etc.). Now though, it is different. Instead of not being able to move at a reasonable pace on the sidewalk, we are not able to walk at a reasonable pace in the middle of the street.

Mayor Bloomberg has turned Broadway, from 47th street to 42nd street, into a pedestrian mall. What a great idea. Now, instead of moving on the sidewalks at a pace that would drive any New Yorker completely bonkers, tourists are standing still on the sidewalk, taking pictures of each other, with billboards in the background.

Pumpkin and I walk over to eighth avenue. It is a longer route, and the stationary tourists still annoy me, but it is faster.

The movie itself is always a lot of fun, as New York audiences tend to get into the show. There is a lot of talking back to the screen.

After the movie we go to Stone Cold Creamary, which neither of us need.

A lot of people tell me that they could never live in New York City. It is too crowded. It is too dirty. It is too expensive. Really, it isn't that much different than living anyplace else. Date night is date night where ever you go. The biggest difference is how you get to the movie.

Static Electicity and Me

2007-05-08T20:37:00.000-05:00

I discovered recently that, if you save important files to a flash drive, those files can be deleted with a simple touch.

The valuable information that had been residing on my hard drive, but was safely backed up on the flash drive, is now gone. I'm told this is a function of static electicity, and that it happens all the time. In my case it happened right after my hard drive on my laptop died, with all of my current work saved to the "thumb drive". I'm a lucky guy. So, I'm recreating a lot of information. In the meantime, "Brian the Geek" is troubleshooting the dead harddrive from my laptop. I still hope to get photos off of that.

I used to think I was technically savey. No so much anymore.

Life is hard, then the platters stop spinning.

2007-04-06T13:16:00.000-05:00

My laptop's hard drive just died. The good news is that the stuff I've been working on is on a flash drive. The bad news is that I have a lot of photos and stuff on that hard drive. The good news is that there are people at work who might be able to help me get that data off of the hard drive.

I'm staying in Rochester this weekend. I didn't plan it this way, but it is a good idea. Every school in the Rochester area is on break this week and being at an airport is going to be ugly. I would rather spend quality time sleeping.

Easter is a time to reflect on Christ's resurrection, as was foretold by the prophets. What an incredible thing to do for us. It is hard to imagine why God would do this other than He loves us, and wants us to be happy, and to have all that He has to offer.

I'm back

2007-02-08T12:55:00.000-05:00

It's freezing outside, and not in some abstact way, but in a frostbite in a few minutes of exposure way. I like the bitter cold. It is crisp, refreshing, and reminds me why I like summer so much.

I'm going to take the historical posts from Tales from the Big City and post them here. It will be easier to update, and for you to visit.

A new start

2006-06-12T09:03:00.000-05:00

I'm taking a job outside of the Big City, but I'm not really leaving. The plan is that I will spend the weekdays in Rochester, and the weekends in New York. Frankly, I have doubts as to how well this will work, but I really like the concept behind the new job. Most of what I love about the Big City is what I do on the weekends, not what I'm doing during the week, which is often laundry. So, I will continue to write my Tales from the Big City.

Traveling Tips

2002-07-26T17:10:00.000-05:00

If you are going to visit The Big City here are some tips:

Tip 1:

If the cab driver says there is no electricity in the part of the city you have asked to visit he is likely not talking about the relative nightlife. He may mean what he is saying literally.

Tip 2:

If someone comes up to you, a complete stranger, and begins a conversation, look him/her straight in the eye and say “no”.

Tip 3:

Avoid playing the game “name that smell”. It isn’t a very much fun and you don’t get anything if you win.

Tip 4:

Bring more than one wallet. In the wallet you plan to carry with you keep one or two credit cards and enough money for the day. In the other wallet keep everything else. Keep the second wallet at the hotel. If the room has a safe, use it. If it doesn’t have a safe leave it with the hotel front desk, which is required to have a safe.

Tip 5:

Remember to claim the second wallet from the front desk before you leave town.

Tip 6:

Check your hotel room thoroughly as you pack. For example, if you put your car keys in a dresser drawer and then get to the airport and find you don’t have your car keys, you will need to pay a cabby the going rate to bring them to you at the airport. (The going rate in New Orleans for this service is $28.00)

Tip 7:

Don’t put your car keys in a dresser drawer. Leave them in your luggage.

Tip 8:

Women: don’t wear white. Imagine you are on a boat returning from Ellis Island. Imagine also a thunderstorm is approaching. Imagine too that you are caught in the thunderstorm with nowhere to go for shelter.

As I was walking through Battery Park with friends, soaked to the skin from this sudden storm, I passed a couple, also soaked. As I passed the couple I could hear her say to her companion “can you see my ass?” She was wearing white shorts. At this I stopped, turned, gave her a thumbs up and said "You betcha. Nice purple thong. The men of New York City thank you.” Her response was “that will a dollar.”

Parades

2002-05-30T16:55:00.000-05:00

I have attended hundreds and have marched in dozens of parades. This all started when I was a small child. Van Etten had an annual fireman’s field days and associated fireman’s parade. My mother wanted our family to participate. My father built a float out of plywood and doweling. On the each side of this "float" were the words "Mack’s ½ Ring Circus" and "Lion Cage". The plan was that the family dog would pull this lion cage, which fit on the traditional "little red wagon". In the lion cage would sit the family cat. My sister and I would be dressed as circus clowns. On the back of the float dad had painted "Would you believe a cat cage?" It was cute.

There turned out to be a couple of small problems with the plan. First, nobody asked the cat what she thought of the idea. The spacing of the doweling bars of the cage was not narrow enough to keep the cat inside the cage. We did not realize before the parade that the cat had no skeleton. Second, nobody consulted with the dog regarding the plan. "Daisy" was part Alaskan Husky. However, it appears we did not get the part of the Husky that pulls little red wagons down the street.

The new plan…the seven-year old boy pulls the wagon. The other family dog, "Doren" takes the place of the cat in the cage. The 11-year-old girl hides in her room. Dad changes the message on the back of the float to read, "Would you believe a dog cage", with cat having been crossed out.

I have pictures.

No, you can’t see them.

Thus began my fascination with parades.

I’m in the right city to be a fan of parades. I suspect you have heard of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and the New York City St. Patrick’s Day Parade. What you likely have not heard much about are some of the other parades. For example, the Puerto Rico Day parade, the Salute to Israel Parade, the Turkish American Day Parade, the March for Children’s Rights, The Rites of Spring: Procession to Save our Gardens parade and the Scottish Day Parade, featuring the largest assembly of pipers and drummers in the world, 10,000. Just about every weekend in the spring, summer and fall there is a parade in Manhattan. I enjoy them all. One weekend I was in Manhattan with a visiting friend and stumbled across the Sikhs (India) parade. I sat and watched for a while, having a grand time, until my friend reminded me that she hadn’t traveled to the Big City to see the city’s cab drivers stage a parade.

Each parade brings something different to the Big City in terms of culture. However, they all share one central theme that holds them together. Screwing up traffic.

Getting around the Big City on a weekday can be challenging. However if you know your bus and subway routes, and you know that even numbered streets go east and odd numbered streets go west, you should be ok. On the weekend though, it is different. You can never be sure which street will be shutdown and when. For example a couple of Saturdays ago Ninth Avenue was shut down from 37th street to 57th street. This was for a street festival. I don’t know what they were celebrating, but I do know that my usual access to the Lincoln Tunnel had an Italian Sausage stand where I wanted my car to be.

All of this comes to mind because today is May 30, 2002. Today we had a different type of parade. Actually, it was a procession. Today they brought the last piece of structural steel out of the pit we call the World Trade Center. Most of the parades I have attended or participated in celebrated or commemorated something that was important to someone. This procession was about everyone. Everyone who marched in the procession deserved a parade. The procession had firefighters, police officers, EMTs, construction workers, Red Cross volunteers, search and rescue dogs, the Salvation Army, the United States Army and in the rear, politicians, including America’s mayor, Rudy.

It would have been easy for someone to use today’s ceremony to make a point. To have a well-written speech that would have summed up how we feel, or how we should feel, about this past year. Thankfully, nobody tried. They rang a bell. They played Taps. We all saluted. The NYC Police Department helicopters flew over in formation. A bagpipe band played "God Bless America".

I have never been more moved by a parade than I was today.

Sometimes I Lose Stuff

2002-05-13T16:48:00.000-05:00

When I was a teenager there were many things about me that drove my parents nuts. One was my tendency to lose things. Things of value. Things such as a camera. I was the high school yearbook photographer. There wasn’t a week that went by that someone didn’t visit my father’s classroom to return my camera, which I had left somewhere in the school. My father’s classroom was also where my jackets, books, bike, etc., would be deposited.

This was an advantage of having my father as a teacher in the same school I attended.

This week I lost my gym bag. More specifically, I left it in the overhead bin on the bus Tuesday evening. I was on my way home. I was tired. I had actually been to the gym. When I got up to leave the bus I left the bag in the overhead compartment.

The next morning I asked Eddie, the bus driver, what I should do. He gave me the number to the bus garage where my bag would have been turned in. I took my seat and, using my cell phone, called the garage. The guy who answered sounded like a guy who works in a bus garage.

No, the bag had not been turned in. Eddie, having overheard the conversation, speculated that another passenger had taken the bag.

Let me see if I have this straight. Things are so bad for someone that taking my bag filled with sweaty socks, shorts, T-shirt, underwear, a pair of sneakers I used to use when cutting the grass and a pair of headphones I could never use again, now that I think of it, is going to improve their lot in life. Well, ok. He/she can have the bag.

I usually put other things in the bag, such as my Walkman, PDA, cell phone, wallet, and keys. This day, due to divine providence, I didn’t do that. When packing things into the bag at the gym I decided that these were items that didn’t need to be co-mingled with the clothing I had just used in the gym. Normally the gym cloths would have been placed in a separate plastic bag. However, the rack where I usually get this bag was depleted this day. It is the first time in my memory that they were out of plastic bags. Because the gym was out of plastic bags I still have possession of my Walkman, PDA, cell phone, wallet, and keys.

Usually there also would be a soapbox in the bag. This is the plastic thingy used to carry a bar of soap. I didn’t lose that on the bus because I lost that in the shower the previous week. In fact, I have been losing one of those every couple of weeks for the past six months. As big as New York City is, with as many stores as are located in NYC, the only place in the city that sells these stupid soapboxes is K-Mart. I hate K-Mart. Still, every couple of weeks I have to visit the K-Mart on 34th and Seventh Ave. to buy a new soapbox. I’m now at the point I buy several on each trip. The gym provides soap in the showers, but it is liquid soap and it smells like coconuts. I don’t want to smell like coconuts. I have enough problems without smelling like coconuts.

I mentioned my lost gym bag to a co-worker, Martha. She suggested that the next time I visit my father I stop by his old classroom to see if anyone dropped it off.

Well, I hope all is going well with you, and that you found your keys this morning right where you left them.

If it's Sunday this Must Be Poland

2002-04-14T16:46:00.000-05:00

In The Big City the official language is English. It is fair to say that not everybody is completely up to speed with his or her mastery of the language.

For example, just about every day I get my lunch from the same deli. I go there for several reasons

1. It is not McDonalds. I love the food at McDonalds, but I have recently decided I want to live beyond the age of 50. To do that I need to reduce the amount of fat in my diet.

2. This deli has a wide variety of options for lunch.

3. I don’t have to walk more than 30 feet out of the building.

4. The cashier is cute.

Almost every day I get the same thing for lunch, a sandwich in a "wrap". This comes with a complimentary glass of lemonade. They can afford to give away the lemonade, as they do not use more than a couple of lemons to produce hundreds of glasses of this stuff.

When I order the sandwich the guy behind the counter always asks me a question. I have no idea what he is saying. I don’t even know what language he is speaking. However, after a couple of weeks of patronizing this establishment I determined he was asking me if I would like a pickle with my sandwich. How do I know this? Because when I say yes I get a pickle. When I say no I do not get a pickle. This is how I am learning other languages. I still have no idea how to say what he is saying, but at least we have learned to communicate with each other.

I told you that story so that I can tell you this story.

Part of my job is providing information to community groups regarding student financial aid. I usually give these presentations to parents and students at high schools. Today is Sunday. I have agreed to speak to the "Polish Student Association in New York". The location of my presentation is the Polish Consulate to the United States. Today I went to Poland.

I had never given a presentation to a group using an interpreter before this. The exception is when I gave a presentation using a sign language interpreter. That was different though, as that interpreter was quiet. When I arrived I was introduced to my interpreter, Derrick. Derrick explained that he has been in the United States for 14 years, so there might be some Polish words he doesn’t know. I told him that I would be speaking in Lithuanian. He didn’t think that was funny.

The beginning of the presentation didn’t go so well. We hadn’t decided how we were going to do this. Does he translate as I’m speaking or does he wait until I’m done with a thought and then translate? After a couple of minutes we got into a groove. I think it went well. However, I learned something from the experience.

My humor doesn’t translate well into Polish.

I told a joke. Derrick translated. Nobody laughed. I turned to Derrick and asked, "Did you translate the joke?" He said yes. I asked, "Why isn’t anybody laughing". He said, because it wasn’t funny". I took that as a bad sign. From that point on I edited out most of my jokes. The presentation went surprisingly quickly.

It seems Derrick added a lot to my presentation. I would have a one or two sentence thought. His translation would take several paragraphs. I was told later by a member of the audience that Derrick had been expanding on what I was saying.

I recently finished updating a chapter in a financial aid training manual on public speaking. It didn’t occur to me to address the issue of working with a translator. If I had thought of it, I would have included some of the following:

1. Don’t make fun of the translator. You have no control over what he or she is telling the audience.

2. ……

Actually, I just have that one suggestion at this point.

Newark International Airport

2002-03-12T16:44:00.000-05:00

Not too long ago my father came to visit me here in the Big City.

He drove from his house in Van Etten. I was expecting him at 5:00 P.M. In anticipation of his arrival I went to the lobby of my building and waited. He is usually early, so I got to the lobby at about 4:30. I waited there until about 6:00 P.M. At that point I suspected something might be wrong and returned to my apartment on the 11th floor to check my answering machine. When I entered the apartment the phone rang. I answered it and it was my father. He was at the Newark International Airport. Had he flown instead? No. He was lost.

Somehow on his way to my apartment my father entered the grounds of the airport. It is an easy mistake to make. The exit for my street and for the airport is the same exit off of the New Jersey Turnpike (Exit 13A). When you pass the tollbooth you have six choices as to where to go. He chose badly.

So he was at the airport. He was parked in "Lot B". He couldn't figure out how to get out of "Lot B". Don't worry I said. "I'll be right there. I can lead you out."

45 minutes later, I arrived.

The Newark International Airport is about three miles from my apartment. I have never driven to the airport and not been lost.

This becomes an issue today because I just returned from a trip to the airport. Levi's mother and sister are returning to the Philippines. A group of us went to say good-bye and to waive as they passed through the security screening. It was a good thing we left for the airport three hours before the flight was scheduled to take off.

What is wrong with the airport you ask?

The road system of the Newark International Airport is actually a psychology experiment. It is a "rat maze". There is no sense of logic to how the roads are laid out. In the dozen times I have visited the airport I have not seen the same road twice.

The airport has three terminals. If you don't know which terminal your airline uses you have to guess. There are no signs. You have a one in three chance of getting it right. For me, that means I always go to the wrong terminal. When you discover you are at the wrong terminal there are no signs telling you how to get to the right terminal. There are also no signs to tell you how to leave the airport. I suspect there are cars that circle the airport grounds until they run out of gas.

There are options for getting to the airport other than driving. For example, you can take a train. A recent development is that New Jersey Transit and Amtrak trains now stop at a special station that serves only the airport. From there you take a monorail from the station to your terminal.

You can also take a bus. Busses leave the New York Port Authority Bus Terminal every 30 minutes.

You can take a cab. From Manhattan that is about 40 dollars. Unlike taxi trips within The Big City, a taxi trip from NYC to the Newark airport is not "on the meter". Anytime you take a taxi outside of the city limits the cost is subject to negotiation. You will find a number of taxi drivers will refuse to take you to the Newark Airport from Manhattan. It takes too much time coming back to Manhattan empty. They are only allowed to drop off passengers at the airport. They are not allowed to pick up passengers at the airport. Only a Newark, New Jersey taxi can do that.

With all of these fine options why did I drive? Because I'm an American. American's use their cars.

No, that's not really why. It is because the flight was leaving at 11:30 P.M.

Newark International Airport may be one of the busiest airports in the world, but at 11:30 P.M. your public transportation options are limited.

Besides, when someone from the Philippines returns to the Philippines they take along as much stuff from the U.S.A. as is possible. Each passenger is allowed two 70-lb. boxes as cargo. In these boxes they pack all sorts of things that they can't get in the Philippines. For example Levi's mother is bringing back cans of "Spicy SPAM". I'm not kidding.

Obviously it is not convenient to carry 70-lb. boxes on a train, bus or cab.

So, the dozen of us escorted Levi's mother and sister to the airport. We watched them check in. We took photos. We sat around an almost empty terminal for about two hours. It was fun. The flight takes about 24 hours. Because of the International Date Line issue they should arrive yesterday.

At least they weren't leaving from Kennedy. That's a whole different story.

Fitness in the City

2002-02-12T16:42:00.000-05:00

Right now I’m supposed to be at the gym. Well, I guess I can miss it this evening. I’ll go tomorrow. I’ve been saying that since last July, when I joined the gym.

Actually, over the past month and a half I’ve been fairly good about my gym attendance. I haven’t lost any weight, but at least I feel better about the money I’m spending.

It seems that almost everybody in this city has a membership to a gym. They are located on about every other block. The most popular chain of gyms seems to be New York Sports Club.

When I decided to move to the Big City over a year ago one of the variables I considered was the availability of the gym where I was working. On a college campus access to the gym is usually free. In the Big City I would have to pay for access to a gym. After some mulling of the issue it occurred to me that I wasn’t really using the gym at school, so I wasn’t really losing that much. Still, after a few months of living in the Big City I felt guilty about my weight. I joined the gym.

The gym experience in the Big City is much like it appears on television. There are rows of treadmills and stationary bikes being used by people who look like they don’t need the workout. I am not the average gym attendee in this situation. I don’t look anything like these people. I am the Pillsbury doughboy compared to these people. This is why January has been such a wonderful time for me.

In January all the New Years resolutions people showed up. The median fitness level of the people at the gym dropped like a brick. I felt as though I was at home among my people. A couple of weeks ago there was a man who, in the locker room, was breathing heavy and sweating. He was changing his cloths to BEGIN his workout.

Where is the defibrillator when you need it?

Now that we are half way through February we are getting back to the original group. The hard bodies. I have been going to the gym almost every day for the past six weeks. I have gained three pounds. Literally. It is as though my body is asking me “ARE YOU CRAZY?”.

My gym is less than a block from the office. When I first joined I tried going during the day, when I’m supposed to be at work. That plan didn’t work too well. Now I’m going in the evening. The advantage to the current situation is that it forces me to leave work as soon after quitting time as possible. If I wait an extra 15 minutes I’m not going to a seat on one of the stationary bikes, and that is important. Each bike is equipped with its own TV. I have the system timed out so that I can catch the “Simpson’s” on channel 5. Last week I had a change of pace. I watched the congressional hearings regarding Enron.

There are some aspects of the gym I don’t understand. For example, the “spinning class”. It appears that people sign up for a class where they are led by a professional fitness trainer in using stationary bikes. How much instruction is needed to pedal a bike that can’t tip over?

The other classes I understand. There is the kick boxing class. I tend to use the weight machines outside of that classroom during the class. As a result of watching that class I have a profound respect for the ability of a 110 pound woman to kick my butt.

So, I’m trying to take better care of myself. I still have a number of years that I need to use this body. I am not deluded enough to think that I’m going to look substantially better, but maybe I won’t have a heart attack as soon as I would otherwise. In the meantime, the New York Times has today confirmed what I have always known. Some people are genetically “fluffy”. I’m certain I am one of them. If it is in the “Times” it has to be true.

Bonding

2002-01-24T21:02:00.000-05:00

Bonding

January 24, 2002

Every day you meet people in The Big City. You meet them whether you want to or not. With a city of over eight million people you would think you wouldn't meet the same people over and over again. You would be wrong.

If you do the same things daily you are going to meet the same people. When you combine this fact with my need to constantly entertain strangers you get interesting results.

Almost everyone on my morning bus ride thinks the bus driver, Eddy, is my brother. That fact he is Hispanic doesn't seem to make any difference. We have been joking about it for weeks. The rest of the bus thinks it's funny. On the rare occasion I'm not waiting at the curb for the 7:44 bus Eddy asks "where is my brother Billy?”

The big excitement for us waiting for the bus every morning is whether Eddy has a new bus. Most of us seem to like the new bus. The seats are wider, allowing for more butt space. There are some however who prefer the old buses. The seats are softer. I find the second group to have an average weight of 100 pounds.

When I board the bus I have one of about four jokes I tell: "Eddy, I missed breakfast, can you pull though the drive thru at McDonalds?” "Eddy, I didn't get much sleep last night. I need a nap. Could you take the long route?” "Eddy, did you call mom? She said she hasn't heard from you lately.” and "Eddy, I forgot my bus pass. Will you take a third party, out of state, postdated check drawn on Canadian funds"?

For reasons that escape me Eddy always laughs.

As we approach the Port Authority Bus Terminal (PABT), the final stop of the morning, I always ring the button to signal the driver to stop. Again, Eddy always laughs.

(Now, the reason this is funny is that, as the final stop, it is assumed he will stop and let us all off of the bus. Get it? No? Don't feel bad. About half of the passengers don't see the humor in it either. Frankly, I crack myself up, so it doesn't really matter if the others think it is funny.)

Having Eddy as my driver every morning allows me to feel like I belong here. I have connected to someone. Eddy isn't the only one. I have connected with the security guard, Leo, in the Grace Building where I work. My daily joke with Leo is that instead of showing him my photo ID as I enter the building I show him the first thing I find in my wallet. My MasterCard, bus pass, AAA card, blood donor card, whatever. I have also connected with Ilya, my barber. It is tougher to joke with Ilya as he doesn't speak English. I'm not certain what language he speaks, but it certainly isn't English. The standard joke with him is that when he holds up the mirror that allows me to see the back of my head I scream and say "what happened to my hair!” Ilya always laughs. That might be because I always tip Ilya.

My father once gave me the advice that is a good idea to tip anyone who gets near you with sharp objects. My father is a wise man.

The list of those around me in the Big City with whom I have bonded seems to be endless. The three guys at the newspaper stand, the cashier at the restaurant where I get my lunch, the girl who checks me into the gym and hands me a towel, (running joke: "I've been a member of this gym since July and haven't lost a single pound!" "Oh. I actually have to COME to the gym?" "That wasn't in the recruitment materials!")

Yes, the jokes are stupid. A student once described them as "dad jokes". The type of jokes your father tells that embarrasses you when you are in the same room at the time. Still, they serve a purpose. Once, when eating at a restaurant in Lake Placid, NY I told one of my dad jokes. The waiter asked if I was from Rochester. It turns out he had waited on me at a restaurant in Rochester the year before. These stupid jokes allow me to bond with those around me. I stick out in their minds. I am more than just another of the thousands of faces they see every day. I need that. Besides, it breaks up their day. I see it as a public service.

The downside of this behavior is that I have a hard time finding anybody who is willing to travel on vacation with me. A week of hearing these jokes will drive just about anyone insane.

Still, I don't stop. I crack myself up.

A Man Walking His Dog

2001-12-17T16:05:00.000-05:00

A Man Walking His Dog

December 17, 2001 4:05 P.M.

I'm sorry to bother you twice in one day, but I hit the send key too quickly. Right after writing to you about escalators I went to visit the new Toys 'R Us in Times Square. On my way I passed a man walking a dog. The man was dressed as Uncle Sam. The dog was wearing a cardboard Uncle Sam hat. Riding on the dog's back was a cat, which was wearing a red, white and blue knit cap. Riding on the cat's back were two white mice. I didn't see any clothing on the mice.

Yes, they were all live animals. Yes, they were all behaving themselves.

The 60 foot tall Ferris wheel in the Toy's 'R Us ain't got nothing on what is happening outside the store.

And the store didn't have what I was looking for. Don't worry Elizabeth. I'll keep looking.

Escalators

2001-12-17T14:40:00.000-05:00

Escalators

December 17, 2001 2:40 P.M.

There is an unnatural fascination with escalators in this town. Everywhere you go in The Big City you will find either an escalator or a revolving door or both. It is almost as if residents of The Big City can't be trusted to walk up a flight of stairs.

I have noticed there are several types of escalators in The Big City. The most common type is the "double wide". On this device there are rules. For example, if you are going to stand still for the ride you must stand on the right hand side of the step. This allows the Type A personalities to walk past you on the left side. This works most of the time because most people know the rule. The rule is not actually posted anywhere. If you don't know the rule someone coming up behind you will be happy to explain it in one or two words.

Couples who are currently dating and are still hanging all over each other often ignore the rule. They insist on holding hands up the escalator. No amount of prompting from the rear can separate these lovebirds.

The system also doesn't work well when there is someone on the escalator who exceeds the device's "normal" design. But enough about me and my big butt.

Another type of escalator is the "single wide". On this device you can only fit one person per step. Unless the entire column of people chooses to walk the escalator everyone is stuck in the position they took when they boarded. Frankly, this shouldn't be a big problem as the trip is usually about 30 seconds or less. Here in The Big City though they have installed "single wides" going to all of the commuter bus gates in the Port Authority Bus Terminal (PABT). Many commuters have timed out their trip home to the second. If they arrive at the escalator to their gate and have found it is not moving quickly they could miss their bus.

Waiting a half-hour at the PABT for the next bus shouldn't be traumatic except for two points. There is no place comfortable to sit at the PABT (by design, to discourage loitering) and if you need a bathroom you will find the homeless have camped out in the stalls at the PABT. At least they have in the men's room. I can't speak to what is happening in the ladies room.

Another type of escalator is the type found in Macy's, at 34th St. and Broadway. These are the escalators installed before development of sheet metal. They are wooden escalators and can be found all over the store. I once went to Macy's and took the escalators to the seventh floor. These antique escalators are actual tourist destinations. At this point they are likely protected historic sites and as such cannot be removed.

They have installed escalators in many of the subway stations. If you once owned an ant farm and was fascinated at watching the ants then watching commuters bottleneck onto the subway escalators is for you.

I was descending an escalator this morning when a co-worker tried to get my attention, just to say hello. I didn't notice. When on the escalator I get the "thousand mile stare". While I like to think I'm maintaining my hickness, I am slowing become just another one of the pod people. I never really thought it was possible to sleep standing up with my eyes open but here I am.

I hope Christmas brings you joy.

A Walk In the Park With Bill

2001-12-05T23:00:00.000-05:00

I got a call this past Friday evening from the scheduling coordinator for the Central Park Medical Unit (CPMU). She wanted to know if I was available on Saturday. Sure.

The first call for an ambulance on Saturday was for a woman who had fallen off of her horse. In the 10 years I volunteered as an EMT in Chili, NY, a relatively rural community, I had never gone to a call involving a horse. Now that I'm in The Big City, I get that call.

Actually, it is a regular occurrence in the park. You can rent a horse by the hour and ride it on the "bridal path". This is only one of the many things people are doing in the park. It seems people get hurt doing most of these things. For example, there is roller blading.

It seems that some people purchase roller blades, and then decide to learn how to use them by going down the steepest hill in the park. At the bottom of the hill are a curve and some large rocks. I think you get the picture.

There is also biking. My first bike accident patient had fallen head first off of his bike. When we arrived he was becoming conscience. His first question to me was "how are my teeth?" To which I replied, "Excuse me?” "How are my teeth? I just paid $25,000 to have them capped. Are they ok?” I looked and replied, "Your teeth appear to be fine. Let's talk about the two inch gash on the top of your head.”

He hadn't been wearing a helmet. We carry a brochure to give to bikers and roller bladers regarding wearing a helmet.

The CPMU does not participate in the 911 system. Instead joggers dispatch us. Joggers stop at the ambulance to tell us of someone they passed who is lying on the ground looking injured. It is for this reason we tend to spend the entire day "touring the park" with the ambulance. We spend the day driving around Central Park looking for sick and injured people. Mostly we find people looking for directions.

This past Saturday the most popular place in the park was Strawberry Fields. No strawberries are grown in Strawberry Fields. It is across the street from where John Lennon lived and was shot. A memorial to John Lennon is located there. On this particular Saturday it had become a memorial to George Harrison. Hundreds, if not thousands, of people were visiting to pay their respects. They were gathering in ad hoc groups and singing songs his songs. When we stopped by two groups had formed. One group was singing his Beatles tunes and the other was singing his post-Beatles tunes. Police were nearby in case it got ugly.

There are some stops in Central Park that everyone should make. One is the Bethesda Fountain. On the weekends you will find a fellow wearing only a loincloth and feathers in his hair while playing the violin. I didn't pay a lot of attention to Mr. Riker, my social studies teacher in the seventh grade, when he taught me about the Native Americans but I'm fairly certain the violin was not one of the instruments of these indigenous peoples. We call this fellow Thor. He is there every weekend. We don't know his real name, nor do we care. His musical style can best be described as "insanity".

I'm interested to see what happens when winter finally arrives.

Also at this location on this particular day was a street performer juggling flaming torches while riding a unicycle with a tourist on his shoulders.

Central Park has its own outdoor ice rink. The air temperature on Saturday was around 70. When we stopped by the rink at about 5:00 P.M. there was an incredible line to get into the rink. I don't usually think of ice-skating when it is 70 degrees, but obviously somebody does. To get in to the rink area patrons must pass through a metal detector. Are they looking of Osama? No. It appears they are trying to prevent gang fights.

Gang members ice skate?

I had planned to take a nap on Saturday. Instead, I spent the day in the park. I needed the sleep, but I enjoyed the entertainment even more.

NYC Marathon

2001-11-06T23:59:00.000-05:00

The New York City Marathon. What a great idea. Let's have 30,000 people run through the five boroughs of New York City. Their mission? To see whom is fastest? Well, maybe for the first 20 or 30. The goal of the remainder of the crowd? To see who lives.

Why would anyone run 26.2 miles? The original marathon was run between Athens and Marathon, Greece. A messenger who had to deliver news of a battle ran the trip. He delivered his message. Then he died. On Sunday 30,000 runners commemorated that achievement.

My view of the festivities was from an ambulance.

What a wonderful way to see New York City. It was a quiet day. My squad was covering Central Park. The runners had their own medical response set up, which didn't include us, so we watched the race.

Central Park is an interesting place to work as an EMT. I wasn't with the crew two weeks ago when a call came in for a "loose lion" but I was told the story on Sunday. The squad on duty heard the call over the police frequency. The ambulance is issued a police radio at the beginning of each tour. Although there hadn't been any report of someone injured the crew responded to the area of the Central Park Zoo. Upon arrival the police met them. The officer asked, "What are you doing here?” The driver responded, "We're going to stand by in case anyone is injured by the lion". "What lion?" asked the cop. "The loose lion" responded the driver. It was then that the cop explained that there was not a loose lion in the park. The call was for a loose LINE. A power line had fallen down.

This is why it is important for everyone to have the same accent when using emergency radios.

Back to the race.

The winners of the race are impressive runners. Where I was sitting, as the race turns from Fifth Ave. into the park at 90th street, the lead runners were looking strong. An hour later the rest of the runners arrived. Anyone can run the NYC Marathon. You don't need to qualify for the race. That some of these people were still standing, let alone running, was amazing.

The first runner took about two hours and seven minutes. Wow. The race started at about 11:00 a.m. and at a little after one in the afternoon the winner crossed the finish line. I left the park at about 6:30 p.m. Runners were still coming. Actually, they were more like walkers, staggered and crawlers.

As I was leaving the park I walked across Central Park West, which is the street bordering the parks west side. At 86th Street the road had been closed. There were about a dozen cops directing traffic. I was transfixed. The traffic was backed up as far as the eye could see. It was evening already. It was a wonderful sight. It was even more wonderful because I wasn't driving.

I love the city at night. All of the lights make it look like a carnival. Adding to the ambiance were at least 200 United Parcel Service (UPS) trucks. The cops were directing them out of the park. It appears that a fleet of UPS trucks follows the marathon, picking up those who have given up. It was a true New York moment for me.

To add to the joy of the day I descended into the bowels of the city to take the subway to Penn Station. I was on my way home. Upon approaching the turnstile with my Metrocard I hear a cop yell, "Hey, what do you think you're doing"? Oh great. Now what? He says, "Come here". So, I approach him and his partner. "What are you doing? I can't believe you were even thinking of paying to ride the subway. You're EMS. You go though the side gate".

It appears that, in the Big City, uniformed personnel, who are called MOS (members of service), do not pay to ride the trains. I was escorted through the side gate. Every day I feel more at home in this city.

That's all from the Big City for now. I hope you are well.

The Country House

2001-10-23T20:56:00.000-05:00

Before moving to The Big City I rationalized the increased living costs with some assumptions. For example, I had planned to sell my two cars. I have never understood why anyone would need to own an automobile in The Big City. The mass transit options available make owning a car an unneeded luxury. In fact, it isn't any fun to drive a car in The Big City. Traffic moves slowly, other drivers are insane, traffic patterns are impossible to understand and insurance rates are the highest in the nation.

So, in response to all of this, I bought a new car.

My reasoning for needing a new car is both extensive and brilliant.

I wanted it.

Helping the economy; zero percent financing; the fact the old car needed new tires and the ashtray was full… These were all just rationalizations.

I have learned a lesson. Those who live in The Big City need a car so that they can get out of The Big City. Permanent residents of The Big City leave the city to the tourists on the weekends. True city dwellers go to the theater, art galleries and restaurants on weeknights. Weekends are reserved for the "country home". Well, wanting to fit in, I too have a country home. It is my father's house in Van Etten, NY.

This past weekend I visited dad. It gave me the opportunity to break in the new car (Mustang convertible). My plan was perfect. I pick up the new car on Tuesday as I'm leaving for a financial aid conference in the Catskills. On Friday, after the conference, I would drive to dad's house. I would be part way there anyway. Unfortunately I was delayed in picking up the new car. It seems I had misplaced the title to the car I was trading in. I am the most organized person I know but some things just don't survive moving well and vehicle titles seem to be among them. So I went to the conference in the old car. On Friday I drove back to The Big City, into Manhattan, picked up the car and, just in time for the rush hour, began my drive upstate.

I put the top down on the convertible and sat in traffic. It appears that if you have the top down on a convertible you appear to be approachable. I spoke to a lot of people that day. For example, I met a woman from New Jersey in a SUV. She was stuck in traffic next to me ask me. She asked me for directions to the Lincoln Tunnel. We were already stuck in a line for the Lincoln Tunnel, the fact that we were twelve blocks away not withstanding. She was thrilled. I felt as though we had bonded.

The drive to dad's house took five and half-hours. If the original plan had worked it would have taken two and a half-hours.

I had traveled from a city with over eight million residents to a village with less than five hundred residents. When a car travels down Main Street in Van Etten, people look to see who it is. Van Etten is so small, when someone turns on a toaster, the streetlights dim.

When I arrived at my country home I found that my father was not there. He was out playing dominos. Oh, will the excitement never end. Not to worry, I know where the key is hidden. Well, I know where it is usually hidden. It seems dad lost the key, so the door is now just unlocked. (He is fixing that problem this week so don't get any ideas).

My father and I planned a big day for Saturday. First, I removed the air conditioner from his window. Then we put some siding that had fallen off back onto the side of his house. For our evening entertainment dad suggests dinner at a restaurant in Newfield, 12 miles away. They are offering a prime rib dinner for $8.99. When we arrive in Newfield we can't seem to find the restaurant. The ad said it was next to the covered bridge (yes, a covered bridge, just like on the postcards). All we see next to the bridge is a convenience store. We drive up and down Main Street looking for the restaurant. (It is a trip of about ½ a mile). We stop at the convenience store to ask for directions. Inside we find…prime rib. Yes, the convenience store is selling a prime rib dinner for $8.99. And it's good. It's very good.

What is the lesson to be learned? The reason people leave The Big City and go to their country homes is that The Big City is wonderful, but it is overwhelming. We all need time and places where all of our senses are not working overtime filtering what we need to know from what we don't need to know. In Van Etten a car alarm would draw attention. In The Big City a car alarm only draws attention if it sounds for a couple of hours. At that point 911 is not called, but a baseball bat is found in the closet.

The people heading for upstate, Pennsylvania, the Jersey Shore and Long Island don't leave the city because they hate the city. They are leaving to preserve their sanity. Upon return to work on Monday morning they, and I, have a new appreciation for the city, its noise, grime, traffic, crowds, stores, hotdog carts and $10.00 Rolex watches.

The Producers

2001-09-25T20:55:00.000-05:00

"The Producers" is the hottest ticket on Broadway this year. It is sold out until March of 2002. After that it is hard to get good seats until December of 2002. Today's Tale from the Big City is about the CANCELLATION LINE.

Most people who attend the NYC Theater know that there is a ticket booth in the middle of Times Square. They sell, at a discount, tickets for plays showing that day. Most shows will have remaining tickets available. Not great seats, but it depends.

When I was a teenager my parents and I would visit my grandparents in New York City. My father would send me to Manhattan to stand on line at this ticket booth. Hours later, he and my mother would follow. They would find me standing on line, talking to strangers. Seeing that I was not dead or injured, they would go to the Howard Johnson's and get a cup of coffee. It was a system and it worked.

Over the years I have seen some fantastic shows using this system. I have also seen some rotten shows.

The Producers will not be selling tickets at the discount ticket booth for the next few years. If you want to see The Producers you need to find another system. There are several options:

1. Hang out in hotel lobbies in Manhattan offering sexual favors.
2. Plan early for a trip to New York. Early means years in advance.
3. Ebay. 100.00 tickets are currently selling for about twice their face value, in violation of New York State law.
4. The cancellation line.

Being the "know it all" that I am, I thought I knew everything about New York theater. I did not know about the cancellation line until I moved here. Here is the concept. Sometimes ticket holders can't use their tickets. If the show is sold out the theater will repurchase the ticket and sell it to someone on the cancellation line.

For The Producers this line often begins forming about 4:00 P.M. This is the same line as the Standing Room Only (SRO) line. There are about 14 spots in the back of the theater where you can stand to watch the show. It is a three-hour show. As inexpensive as SRO may be, I am not standing for three hours.

Last Wednesday, for reasons unknown, I decided I would check out the cancellation line. My Yoda regarding New York City cultural affairs indicated that, it being 4:45 already, the line would already be too long to reasonably expect to obtain a ticket. However, it being Wednesday and me not having a lot to do on Wednesday evenings I decided to give it a try. Yoda and I got there at about 5:15. There were about 30 people in line already. This is usually the kiss of death for the cancellation line. After all, how many people are going to cancel going to the hottest show in town? Yoda stood with me for awhile. At about 5:45 she decided our chances weren't good and that she wasn't in the mood for Mel Brooks anyway. I was left alone.

You might not have heard but tourism to New York City has fallen off somewhat recently. At 6:15 I was escorted in to the box office and sold a seat in the sixth row, orchestra and center. This is known as a VERY good seat.

And so I was rewarded. I was rewarded for refusing to be depressed. I was rewarded for believing that living in New York City is about much more than going to work in the morning and going home in the evening to watch television and a pair of neurotic cats. Living in New York City is about having access to great cultural treasures such as that classic song "Springtime for Hitler".

It's a good show. Is it worth $100.00 a ticket? I don't know. Maybe it’s not worth it for everyone. It was worth it for me on that Wednesday evening.

September 17

2001-09-17T20:07:00.000-05:00

Rudy asked that we try to make New York City as normal as possible. Today, New York City was not normal. It was better.

Today people smiled at each other. They spoke to each other. They have a shared experience, and it has united them. I went to get my hair cut today. Yes, I still need to pay to have what remains of my hair cut.

The guy in the next chair was having his eyebrows waxed. I have to say that this sight was, again, a first for me. As I sat down in my chair he told me that he is a construction worker. They are building a 48-floor building at 37th and Sixth Ave. He has to have his eyebrows waxed once every three months or they get out of control. This was clearly too much information.

Before last week he wouldn't have shared that information.

Everybody who knows me knows that I make a habit of talking to complete strangers. It drives those around me nuts. In the Big City I had cut back on this activity. Not everyone here speaks English. Today was different. Everyone wanted to talk.

New York City is smaller today.

September 14

2001-09-14T10:00:00.000-05:00

September 14, 2001

10:00 A.M.

It’s raining. Finally, the weather matches our mood.

The past several days have been sunny and bright. It contributed to the surreal aspect of this tragedy.

My father is driving down to visit this weekend. We had planned this a while ago. We are going to see the Broadway show “Blast” Saturday evening. The most important thing the average person in the Big City can do is live as normally as possible.

I haven’t cleaned the apartment recently. I hope dad understands.

Things I didn’t think I would ever see: Fighter jets patrolling the skies over Manhattan; Humvees in convoy down Fifth Ave.; New Yorkers standing on the side of the road cheering dump trucks in convoy on the way to ground zero; A guy on the streets handing out free American flags.

One of my co-workers was having lunch at a diner on Wednesday. A convoy of National Guard vehicles passed. The patrons stood and cheered.

Yesterday there were several bomb threats in midtown Manhattan. One was at Grand Central Terminal, which is a block and half from my office building. It is hard to know how to react to such things.

A lot of what we are reading in the papers and seeing on the television news is simply untrue. Be careful to filter news you hear.

September 12

2001-09-12T22:20:00.000-05:00

The most frustrating aspect of this tragedy for me has been how little I have been able to do to help.

I have just returned from Manhattan. The EMS staging area has several dozen ambulances and crews sitting and waiting. Frankly, EMS workers are trained to provide immediate assistance to the sick and injured. There aren't many sick or injured in Manhattan tonight. We sat and waited.

The WTC operation is no longer a rescue operation. It is a recovery operation. That is not to say that someone who is living won't be pulled out of some air pocket, but dozens of ambulances won't be needed to treat that person or persons. Mostly the ambulances will be used for those workers who are digging. It is an unstable environment, and somebody is going to get hurt.

The firehouse behind my office building on 43rd street will be a strange site for a long time. A firehouse without a fire truck. Engine 65 is under a pile of rubble. The crew is safe. The truck is history. The firefighters working this evening's shift are sitting and waiting to be told what to do. It is hard to respond to emergencies without a fire truck.

I'm going to work tomorrow. I'm taking my EMS gear with me, but I doubt I'll need any of it. Still, I'll feel more secure having the gear next to my desk. Maybe Central Park Medical Unit will be dispatched during the day, and maybe they won't be able to raise a crew.

Not being able to do anything to relieve the pain of this tragedy is frustrating all of us. I don't have any solutions. One recommendation though is to turn off the news. There is only so much of this you can take.

September 11

2001-09-11T23:10:00.001-05:00

I haven't seen much of the news yet. I only know my little piece of the world.

I received a telephone call at about 9:15 this morning from DeAnn Pettinelli. DeAnn works in the financial aid office at RIT. She asked if I was ok. What a strange question. Of course I was ok. She then explained why my health and safety were an issue.

Today I spent my time with the Central Park Medical Unit. This is a volunteer ambulance in New York City's Central Park. I had joined this agency recently because I missed working as an EMT.

I'm home now. I have taken a shower and put on clean cloths. I don't know what I'm doing tomorrow. I'm waiting for a phone call from CPMU to tell me when and where I need to go. The one thing I know for certain is that I will not be administering student financial aid for the City University of New York tomorrow.

If you called or e-mailed asking after my health and safety, I'm fine. I'm tired, but I'm fine. I contributed very little to today's emergency response, but at least I was able to do something other than listen to the radio. For that I am thankful.

My walk with God is not what I would like it to be. I hope to improve on that relationship. God is the only thing I am able to rely on in this life. Jesus Christ came to live among us to save us from our sins. I am more thankful of that today than I have ever been before.

I'm fine. I hope you and your family are well.

Life will be different from now on...

It's Not My Fault

2001-08-17T20:47:00.000-05:00

It is not my fault!

August 17, 2001

When I moved to the Big City I thought I would lose weight. After all, most of my daily transportation requires walking. There is a big obstacle to losing weight in the Big City. Food.

My morning walk to work is four blocks long. On this walk from the bus station to the office I pass five coffee and donut carts. These carts are about five feet long and three feet wide. A man stands in the cart and sells coffee, donuts, bagels, fried eggs on a roll, hot chocolate, ice coffee, etc. I have no idea how this is done. Where does he put the grill? The coffee urn? Where does the water come from? These carts are simply rolled onto the sidewalk. Permits are not needed for location. They just find a spot and park their cart. I’m told that turf battles between these entrepreneurs are common.

In addition to the coffee carts we have the produce stands. Some are full time stands. Others simply appear on the sidewalks in the morning. Prunes are currently 99 cents a pound. My father tells me this is a good price. I pass four of these operations.

Lunchtime brings in the second wave. The ever-popular hot dog cart appears on almost every corner. There are actual lines of people waiting to purchase the soggy product. You also can obtain your supersized salted pretzel from the hotdog cart. The price of a hotdog ranges from $1.00 to $1.50. The hotdogs are the same wherever you go. It is only the price that changes. Sometimes you can even negotiate the price. You don’t want to be behind the guy that decides he needs to save 25 cents.

Next to, or at least close to, the hot dog cart will be a vendor selling bags of roasted nuts. Peanuts, cashews, macadamia, etc. These nuts appear to have been soaked in sugar, and then roasted. They are addicting. I’m currently looking to join a 12-step program.

If you decide to run an errand on your lunch hour you must run a gauntlet of these vendors. The most insidious are the Mr. Softie trucks. Every other block there is parked a Mr. Softie truck, just waiting for me. It is almost as though they are calling my name.

There are hundreds of restaurants in a two-block radius of my office. The selection available covers any type of cuisine you can imagine. Go ahead and name any type of food you enjoy and it can be found within a five-minute walk from the front of my building. These restaurants are typically eight feet wide and 120 feet deep. The biggest challenge in any of these joints is figuring out how to order. Where do you stand?
What do you say? What happens if you offend the guy behind the counter? We aren’t working with the smiling kids at suburban fast food restaurants. These guys look like they are veterans of the gulf war. I’m not talking about the winning side.

With all of this selection where do I go? McDonald’s. Of all of the restaurants in the area, Mickey D’s provides the fastest service. The scene resembles the trading floor of the New York Stock Exchange. There are no lines. There are no pleasantries and there is no mustard on the burgers. (It appears New Yorkers, as a rule, do not like mustard on hamburger. Hotdogs yes, hamburgers no.) It is organized chaos. I walk in, yell my order (NUMBER 2 MEAL, DIET COKE, MEDIUM, TO GO) and I am handed just that (after forking over $4.97). I tried going to the same McDonald’s on a Saturday. It was weird. Everyone was trying to form lines. The tourists had invaded.

This is why I’m not losing weight. It’s not my fault.

Traffic

2001-08-02T20:46:00.000-05:00

Watching traffic in the Big City is much like watching the ballet.

That is, if the ballet were choreographed by someone on crack.

Every morning thousands of buses, cars and trucks carrying millions of people enter Manhattan. If you didn’t already know let me tell you, Manhattan is an island. To get on to or off the island you must take either a bridge or a tunnel. So, you have the perfect example of the “bottleneck”. Traffic from upstate New York, Connecticut, Queens, Brooklyn, Long Island and New Jersey all coming together at spans and tunnels built in the late 1800s and early 1900s. To make this possible there has to be a system. A way to prioritize traffic. There needs to be a plan that allows the orderly flow of vehicles. The official plan appears to be “Chicken”.

You know. Chicken. The game drivers play in their cars. The game where you come at each other until one gets scared and gets out of the way of the other.

If you want to get onto the bridge or into the tunnel you must “merge” with other traffic. Usually you must merge several times. Basic courtesy says that drivers should take turns letting one each other into the lane. What a plan. To think drivers will consistently show courtesy is perhaps too much to expect. Especially when they are late to work. Let’s be clear about this, everyone is late to work.

This is one reason why I take the bus.

There are three basic types of buses operating in this city; the city bus, the commuter bus and the tourist double decker bus. (When the double decker buses go by I wave to the tourists. It confuses them). When you watch television shows that are based in New York City you don’t see the characters taking the bus to work, or to dinner, or to a movie. If you see them take transportation you see them getting into and out of a cab. This is because television writers either don’t live in this city, or if they do live in the city they are making enough money that they can afford to take a cab wherever they are going.

In most cities the people taking the bus are consider to be losers. In New York City this is not the case. There is no stigma attached to riding the bus. There are many ways to travel around New York City and they are all detestable.

In most cities, if you are going to take a bus somewhere, you need to consult a time schedule. In Manhattan, during the day, the buses run regularly, usually every couple of minutes. If you miss the bus you don’t panic and you don’t run. The next bus will be along in a couple of minutes. It is a wonderful system. There is at least one problem though. Seats on city buses are designed for supermodels. Most of us find our butts do not fit neatly in the curved part of the plastic seats. This means that when there are two normal people sharing a seat supposedly built for two, there is a lot of togetherness.

I have had long-term romantic relationships with less physical contact.

The situation on the commuter buses isn’t much different. Instead of plastic seats, the seats are upholstered which makes them more comfortable. On the other hand the upholstery makes the seats much harder to clean. When someone spills his or her drink on a city bus you can see the puddle and choose to not sit there. When the seat is upholstered you don’t know about the problem until you get that uncomfortable feeling that is usually associated with Depends.

The seats on the commuter buses are also about 2/3 the size of the average butt. Every time I ride one of these buses I have a single wish. “Please, let me sit next to someone with an eating disorder”.

The average first experience in reviewing a bus map in New York City is much like the average first experience with reviewing the circulatory system in a class on human anatomy. There are hundreds of routes; each of them assigned a color. Many people never get past the initial shock of the map. They have found the bus that takes them to and from work, and that is all they understand. If they need to go somewhere else in Manhattan they are lost. I, on the other hand, have studied the map. I know where I’m going. I have the look of confidence that causes others to ask me for directions. For example, I was recently asked how to get to Broadway. I answered, “Get a good agent”. That wasn’t considered to be helpful but I thought it was amusing.

I have not yet become lost using the NYC Bus System. However, there have been times that I have been “routed to an alternative destination”. Let’s just say it is important to notice when the sign on the front of the bus says, “limited”.

That is all for today. Take care and happy commuting.

The Big Move

2001-07-18T20:45:00.000-05:00

I hate moving.

Of course, it is difficult to find someone willing to say they actually LIKE moving, so I'm certain it is no surprise to you that I hate moving.

Moving requires planning, organization and hard work. None of these are positive action words in my life.

However, given enough motivation, I will do what needs to be done. I have moved. I am now a resident of the State of New Jersey.

Last night I was admiring the view from my living room window. I have an unobstructed view and can see literally for at least 20 miles. I can see downtown Elizabeth, the lights of the Gothels Bridge which connects New Jersey and Staten Island. I also see the flame at the top of a tall tower in the distance. I assume this is an oil refinery. Ah, home.

I actually like the view. I spend a lot of time looking out the window. That is likely because the apartment itself is piled with boxes. Cardboard boxes, all labeled "misc.". It is possible I am allergic to cardboard. Every time I come near it I suddenly feel the need to take a nap. I have taken a lot of naps.

The first wave of the move happened a week ago Saturday. The moving truck was scheduled to arrive at 8:00 A.M. I had spent the previous week preparing for their arrival. Mostly this preparation consisted of going to the local UHaul dealer to purchase boxes. I had purchased boxes from UHaul several times in my life. It is a standard process. You go to this small store, where they also rent trucks and install hitches, and you pick out the boxes you think you are going to need. There are at least a dozen different sizes and types. The exception appears to be this UHaul dealer.

I found this place by going to UHaul.com. The store was listed as being the closest. It is a good thing I did this, because if I were simply looking for this place while driving I would have never found it. It looks like a junkyard from the street. The only thing that identifies it as an UHaul outlet was a small portable sign placed on the sidewalk. Even the trucks waiting to be rented don't say UHaul. The first time I found the store I didn't to stop. First, it didn't look open and second; the neighborhood did not appear to be "hick" friendly.

I made a second attempt the next day, when I had plenty of sunlight. Even then, the place didn't look open. The store consists of a shack, with dirty (filthy) windows. When I entered, there were four customers ahead of me. The clerk was watching "Speed Racer" on a small portable TV. As I stood there, four other customers entered the store. After a time of waiting, some of the customers left unserved. This appears to be the store policy. If you make people wait long enough eventually they will leave and bother somebody else.

When it became my turn I was directed to the selection of boxes. They had two choices, large and small. There were no boxes for electronic equipment. No china boxes. No boxes for framed art. Just large and small. I took several of each. The price? It appears the fellow made up the price in his head. There was no cash register or adding machine. I got my boxes. I was happy. The IRS will have to take my word for the cost.

When I moved from Syracuse to Rochester in 1989 I had saved a lot of the boxes. I used them when I moved from Rochester to Queens. I used them again moving to New Jersey. Most of the boxes say "kitchen, living room, bedroom, cat toys". Therefore, they are all now "misc.".

Having obtained boxes I set to the task of packing. You would think I don't have much to pack. I'm a single man living in a closet. You would be wrong. I possess my grandmother's china, which she received as a wedding gift in the 1920's. It was old when she got it. I packed each piece carefully. While doing so I mumbled a great deal about the foolishness of having unpacked it in the first place. What in the world was I going to do with a set of china for 12 in an apartment that wouldn't STAND six adults, let alone have them sit down for dinner?

After the china I packed the books. I have read half of the books. The other half is on my list of things to read. The read books I am keeping because they are mostly textbooks from my graduate program in counseling. I continue to believe I will refer to these books some day.

Next came the biggest packing problem, the kitchen. I went to bed. It was 2:30 A.M. Saturday morning. I gave up.

The moving truck arrived on time, darn it. On-board were three young men. Adam was driving. Adam is from Australia. He moves furniture nine months of the year. He surfs in Australia for three months a year. Brian is an artist. He attended a SUNY school for six and half years, majoring in art. He then dropped out. Those of us in the world of Financial Aid Administration refer to Brian as a SAP problem. And finally, there was Hector. Hector swears he saw me as an actor in a movie recently. I gave up trying to deny it.

In New York City you pay movers by the hour. I was paying $98.00 an hour. My plan was to help them load the truck, to save money. After about 30 minutes I realized that this was not saving me money. I was in the way. These three men had a routine, and I wasn't part of it. I waited downstairs in the "deli" with Mohammed, staying out of the way. It took them four hours to load the truck. At one point I entered the apartment to see how they were doing. Brian was packing the kitchen. He was quick and efficient. It had never occurred to me to simply wrap the unwashed dishes that were in the sink and put them in a box.

At 2:00 P.M. the big truck arrived at the apartment in New Jersey. They brought everything up to my 11th floor apartment. And there it sits. I've done some settling in. The kitchen is unpacked. The TV works. The cable guy has visited. I hung a shower curtain. I'm set. Granted, the apartment is decorated in Early American UHaul. So what?

I'm working on one box at a time. At this rate I should be completely unpacked in two years.

The cats are thrilled. Calvin likes the freshly waxed wood floors. I hear him "skating" in the early morning. Hobbes likes the boxes. She finds spots among them to hide from Calvin. Both of them get to sit in the windows and watch the world from a completely different perspective.

The kitchen sink drain runs a little slow. I need to leave the super, Santos, a note. It is nice to have a super. It is also nice to have a real apartment, with air conditioning, significant water pressure and screens on the windows.

So, that is the update from the Big City.

As a side note, if you watch HBO's Sex in the City, the first scene this week had the four main characters eating lunch in a park. That is Bryant Park and is in front of my office building.

Excitement

2001-06-22T20:43:00.000-05:00

You know you need to add more excitement to your life when you actually sit and watch the window-cleaning guys as they move up and down the side of the building.

I'm Out'a Here

2001-06-19T20:42:00.000-05:00

In New York City, housing is everything.

Finding an apartment in New York is not like finding an apartment in almost any other city. In Buffalo, Rochester, Munich, Istanbul, etc. you would go to the local newspaper and look in either the real estate section or the classified ads. In New York, that is a waste of time. The most you can expect from that activity is to find a real estate agent. These guys and gals place ads for apartments that do not exist. Their hope is to get you to call so they can sign you up.

Renters in New York pay the real estate agent up to 15 percent of the annual rent of an apartment in order to have the agent put you together with the landlord. The only other way to find a livable apartment in this city is to know somebody who already lives in the building. They can then put in a "good word" with the super. That is my current situation.

My current apartment that is about as large as my office at work. Well, that's an exaggeration. Still, having moved from a three-bedroom home, with a dinning area and finished basement, into this place has been a shock. For example, when moving the furniture, the movers were unable to get the sofa through the door. This was ok, because the living room is not large enough for a sofa. I gave the sofa to the mover. (It had been a scratching post for the cats for a decade. It wasn't much of a loss). I was thinking of buying a second chair for the living room, but decided against it. It won't fit.

Think I'm still exaggerating? I have had company. Ask Bonnie, Kathy, Jennifer or Jim.

When I moved here I needed to find a place to live quickly. It was important that I start work on February 1. In hindsight, I should have lived at a cheap motel for a while so that I could search for a real apartment.

My first mistake when looking for an apartment was thinking I HAD to live in the city. That was an expensive mistake. I forgot they have a separate income tax for people who live in New York City.

My second mistake was thinking it would be cool to live above a deli. I forgot that a deli closes at 12:30 in the morning. This wouldn't be a problem except that when the deli closes, Mohammed pulls down the heavy metal doors that cover the windows. I'm a heavy sleeper, but even I can't sleep through that.

In addition to the noise, it isn't a great idea for me to live above a place that sells Ben and Jerry's ice cream in pints.

My third mistake was not realizing that apartments in NYC are measured in square footage, not number of rooms. As my apartment clearly indicates, you can make a two-bedroom apartment out of a closet. All you need is sheet rock and imagination.

So now I'm looking for a new place to live. I think I have found it. It is in Elizabeth, New Jersey.

The attitude of the average New Yorker is that New Jersey is another country altogether. It is beneath contempt. It is ugly, dirty, smelly and populated by undesirable people. To these people I ask only "have you been to Queens?"

The apartment into which I'm hoping to move has twice the square footage. It is on the 11th floor, which means it has a view. Ok, it is a view of Elizabeth, New Jersey. Still, you can see the lights of two bridges from the apartment. In addition, you can see the incoming planes lined up for landing at Newark International Airport. (You can see them, but you can't hear them. The pattern doesn't go over the building. I checked.). All of this, for the same amount of rent I'm currently paying.

I have been asked often "what about your current lease?” Well, I started out with the position that my landlord, Frank, is a nice guy. I don't want to put him in a bad position. However, my position on that issue has shifted. Yesterday I received a notice from Con-Ed, the electric company that the power for the common areas of the building would be turned off in July. This is for non-payment of $118.00 in electric charges. From what I can see, the common areas of the building use three light bulbs. You would have to not have paid the bill for a period of 10 years to run up $118.00 in electric costs, even in New York City.

This comes on the heals of a period of three days where I had no hot water. That was in April. I assumed the water heater had malfunctioned, so I wasn't overly concerned. It turns out that Frank hadn't paid the gas bill, so the gas company turned off the service. I wouldn't know this except that I mentioned it later to Frank, who told me this story. I'm surprised. If I were Frank, I would have lied and said the water heater was broken.

In March the heat in the building was not working. The furnace is over 40 years old and a part needed to be replaced. I don't know a lot of about furnace repair, but I'm guessing that parts for a furnace that is over 40 years old are not found at Home Depot.

I already told you about the mouse. Actually, the cats like the problem with the mouse.

So, I'm planning to move. To sunny New Jersey. Where I can park my vehicle in my own reserved spot in a fenced parking lot. New Jersey, where I can go to a grocery store that actually has carts, which you can push up and down the isles. Currently, in Queens, I have to turn sideways to go down a grocery store isle. New Jersey, where I can ride a bus to work without standing and be to work in half the time. New Jersey, where the junior U.S. Senator is about to be indicted for accepting illegal campaign contributions.

As we age we grow. We learn. We decide what is important to us. For me, I've learned that I don't like standing for 40 minutes on the F train every morning and every evening.

True, "the beautiful people" will turn their noses up at me when I tell them I live in New Jersey. However, I haven't had many deep, interesting conversations with "the beautiful people" in the five months I've lived here, so I suspect that really isn't the big issue I thought it would be. Besides, if you don't live in Manhattan, you don't live in New York City according to "the beautiful people".

I will take solace in the fact that I work in mid-town Manhattan. I will get a daily fix of "The Big City". However, when I go home at the end of the day I will be going to a place that more closely resembles my previous life. Will people still want to visit me? I'll find out. For now, I can't move soon enough. I am waiting for a call from my potential new landlord, Benito.

I still love this city. I just need to have fewer challenges in my day to day living.

The Rules

2001-05-31T20:41:00.000-05:00

I know the rules.

There is a book of rules each new resident to the Big City is given upon arrival. I have read it carefully.

One of the basic rules is simple: "The resident shall, when preparing to leave work, home or place of entertainment, where it can be reasonably be expected he/she knows where the "facilities" are located, shall make use of said facilities."

This is especially important if the resident intends to make use of the mass transit system, where in their wisdom, the designers installed restrooms, but the management has installed padlocks on the restrooms.

So, this is the rule. I live by it faithfully.

That wasn't always the case. I remember one uncomfortable afternoon, while walking in midtown Manhattan, having an urge come upon me. As I walked, I looked for a fast food restaurant. The problem became more acute as I walked. It seems that this neighborhood had an electronics store on every block, but not a McDonalds.

It didn't help that they named the electronics chain "The Wiz".

Do you remember the episode of Seinfield where George shows Jerry and Kramer where to find a restroom in an office building? Well, here is your tip:

Grace Building, on 42nd Street, between Fifth and Sixth Avenues, 15th floor. When you get off of the elevator you can turn two ways. Turn right and you are looking at a police officer. Turn left and you are facing the receptionist. You can get to the restroom either way. Go towards the cop. You will never get past Lois, the receptionist.

In fact, you can even ask the cop for directions.

Now, today's tale.

This evening I went to a movie. It was a movie at a local art theater. No, not that kind of Art Theater. This really shows art movies. You know, movies with sub-titles.

After the show I planned to stop at the "facilities".

However, the exit didn't take me through the lobby. I found myself on the street. I started towards the subway.

Upon arrival at the top of the subway stairs it occurred to me, I JUST PAID TEN DOLLARS TO WATCH A MOVIE I HAD TO READ! I NEED TO PEE! I DESERVE TO PEE AT THAT THEATER!

I returned to the theater. I walked into the lobby. I looked at all of the possible doors. I found one painted all black and opened it. Inside was Nirvana. The restroom. I was thrilled.

So kids, today's lesson regarding life in the Big City is this: If you want something you must look for it. Seek it out. Pay for it if you must. However, as much of a rebel as you are, or you may want to be, it is NEVER a good idea to pee on the subway's third rail.

I love this city.

Score One for the Cats

2001-05-15T20:40:00.000-05:00

Death is a part of life. This is true no matter where we live.

In the Big City, death can be "in your face". We live in close environments. We can see the cycle of life in all its ugliness.

Because we all live in close quarters here in the Big City, what little space we have we defend. If someone "invades" our space it is common for the reaction to be violent, even deadly.

We have all heard about home invasions. This is where someone enters a home without invitation. It is basic instinct to defend your home. Sometimes this happens unexpectedly.

Today I had to face this personally.

The cats caught and killed a mouse in the apartment. I found the results upon my return home.

For those who have asked, "how are the cats adjusting to the city?" the answer appears to be "they are doing fine".

Opps

2001-05-10T20:26:00.000-05:00

You should never trust anyone.

Of course, there are exceptions.

The trip from my office to my apartment takes about an hour. Sometime less, depending on the availability of the subway train.

This evening I left the office at about 6:30. I had stayed late at work to show my support for my former co-workers at RIT. They are currently up to their ears in student financial aid applications.

Actually, I didn't have much real work to do. I just can't seem to break the habit of staying late.

Upon leaving the building I crossed the street, where a pizza shop is conveniently located. I had a wonderful slice of pepperoni pizza. While I ate my dinner I read some news stories from the newspaper "Manila Bulletin", which I had downloaded to my Palm Pilot.

I then stepped next door to obtain my dessert, a small Rocky Road ice cream cone.

I took the ice cream to the park, which is also nearby. There I sat and watched the people, birds, grass, trees and the Empire State Building. It was a very nice evening to sit outside.

Having finished my ice cream, I ventured down to the subway station to begin the ride home. The train arrived quickly.

Even though it was now after 7:00 P.M.I was unable to find a seat on the train. I stood and read more of the newspaper on the ride home.

Upon reaching the Kew Gardens station I again came above ground to find a bus, empty and ready to go. Perfect.

After leaving the bus I stopped in the local bodega to buy some cat food. That was important if I wanted to go home.

Now I'm in the last leg of the trip. I reach for my keys and immediately remember something important. I left my keys in my desk drawer at work.

Oops

Actually, that wasn't my first thought. However, I'm trying to clean up my language.

As I approach the apartment I am thinking of my options.

1) Leave the package from the bodega outside the door and start back to the office.

2)...well, that was about as far as I could get.

Then I had a thought...maybe the guy who runs the small deli under my apartment has a key to the building’s common area. That way I can leave the cat food inside the hall while I take a two-hour trip celebrating my stupidity.

I get to the deli and there is Mohammad. He always greets me the same way. "How are you my friend?” We can all define the word friend differently, but the guy from whom I buy milk doesn't usually reach that level for me. Still, I have always accepted the greeting in good humor.

"Well Mohammad, I have a small problem. Do you have a key to the hallway? I left my keys at work. I can't get in to my apartment."

"Yes. I think so. I also think I have a key to your apartment. Here. Try these."

This is New York City. I have four locks to get into my apartment. (It came that way). This guy, who runs a store under my apartment, has full access to my apartment. Why? It turns out that my landlord also has a tendency to forget the keys, so he leaves a set with Mohammad.

Today is one of those days where it pays to trust.

Not really funny, just interesting.

Music in the City

2001-03-23T20:30:00.000-05:00

I have always been a fan of music. I have eclectic taste. In The Big City my diet is full of music.

It can only be in NYC that, when looking out the subway train window (trying to read what has been written on the subway walls) I hear a tambourine fall onto the floor. I don't turn to look. I know who this is.

There is a gentleman, dressed well and wearing a hat that partially covers his white hair, who plays the violin on the F train. He plays the tambourine with his foot. I have heard him before. He is actually good, considering he is trying to maintain his balance as the train travels at about 30 miles an hour on a track that was laid in 1920. After his performance, which includes portions of "The William Tell Overture" he passes the tambourine seeking donations. I don't usually contribute to "subway musicians" but I made an exception in this case.

Now, the rest of the street musicians are a different story. Last night was reggae night on the E train. The guy looked like Bob Marley and played "I Shot the Sheriff" on an electric guitar. Frankly, I didn't know there was a way to do that without a power source. He had a small battery operated amplifier.

On 42nd Street, between my office and Times Square there is a fellow who plays empty pickle buckets as drums. He has a good sense of rhythm, but I suspect the shop owners along that stretch of street are not thrilled.

In the Times Square subway station there is a woman with a karaoke machine and a microphone singing something that sounds like Britney Spears.

The MTA actually has auditions for musicians who are permitted to play in the stations. This young lady has a permit.

Also having a permit is the trio playing at the 5th Ave. subway station. One of them is playing a pan flute. I would like to say, "there is something you don't see everyday" but, in fact, I DO see it everyday.

Being a bagpipe player I was thinking this would be a good opportunity for me make some extra money. I could bring in my pipes and play in one of the train cars. I could make a fortune from people wanting me to stop playing.

That's all for now. Nothing overly exciting or funny, just different. Very, very different.

Parking

2001-03-23T20:22:00.000-05:00

My project last night for my trip home was to move my truck. It is parked on a side street near my apartment. The street cleaning day for that part of the city is today, so the truck has to find another place to park.

I arrived at my truck on my way home from work. I was already wet. It was raining and I walked the mile from the subway station. The regular bus wasn't running. The police had shut off traffic on the bus route because one of the buses had run over a pedestrian.

Upon my arrival at the truck I found the car in front had backed up to within an inch (literally) of my front bumper. This wouldn't be so bad, but the car behind me was actually touching my rear bumper. I couldn't move the truck.

After considerable thought I called 911. I was given the phone number of the local precinct (102). I called and spoke to Officer Fox. (If anyone needs a lesson on how to speak with a Queens accent, they should call Officer Fox).

I explained my problem to Officer Fox. After a moment of thought he asked "Is your car new?” I replied, "Well, it is in pretty good condition. Why?" "Well" he said, "You could use your car to push one of the other cars out of the way". "I can do that?" I asked, sounding like I was from upstate New York.

Officer Fox, using logic with which you can't argue replied, "What other choice do you have?”

I asked "Can't you send someone to look up the address of the owners?"

"Are they legally parked?"

"Yea, except for having me blocked in."

"Well, that's not illegal. That's just rude."

"So you can't send anyone?"

"Sure, but it will be a three hour wait".

After considerable thought I asked "Couldn't I get arrested for just using my car to push another car down the street?”

"Just tell them you spoke to Officer Fox".

"Ok. I understand. Thank you your help." It was at that moment I understood the rule. The New York City Police Department is willing to help if you think advice is helpful. Otherwise, you are on your own. I then placed the 1997 Chevy S10, with no noticeable body damage, into gear and pushed the MG behind me into a position where he was certainly going to get towed. I then drove away. (No damage done to either vehicle.)

I love this city.

Tell Me Off

2001-03-13T20:21:00.000-05:00

While walking down 42nd Street last night about 6:00 P.M. I passed a "panhandler" (i.e. bum). This is not uncommon. There are a lot of tourists in this part of town and the street has heavy pedestrian traffic. It is good location for someone seeking financial assistance. It hadn't occurred to me previously that even panhandlers have to compete. They need to find something that makes them stick out. A marketing gimmick...

"Tell me off. $2.00".

I love this town.