Monday, November 27, 2006
In color
Ours for a night.
Cheese slaughter! I was full before dinner.
Chad, Michael, and Pea hammin' it up.
Doug, Michael, Pea.
Civilized.
Skol!
The grateful.
Pretty tiles in the kids' bathroom. 
W/ an impressive collection of dollheads.
Goal!
Where we remained for several hours.
Weeeeeeeee!
Bloomingdale's 2006 holiday window display: The World Celebrates.
The Netherlands.
America. (Love that guy's face in there.)
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Musings
*See below for explanation of image.
Ugh. I'm getting sick. The throat, sore. The bod, chilled. The energy, low. Ick. Yet it'll get worse. Right now it's actually not so bad--I have that weird, just-prior-to sensation that feels not unlike a runner's high, kinda light and floaty. (And this, w/o any Tylenol Severe Cold on board.) We'll see what tomorrow a.m. brings. My hopes aren't high.
Anyway, maybe the pending cold partially explains my recent lack of enthusiasm for blogging. It's like, I have so much I want to document (last w/e's run across the GW, for one), yet actually doing it doesn't hold much more appeal than does, I don't know, doing the laundry that so desperately needs to get done. Laundry, ick.
It's not just the writing. My lethargy seems to extend to my life in general--again, a fairly recent development. This could have something to do w/ my training, as I've observed a newfound tenacity that, more than anything, is fear-based. I realize just how badly I want to qualify for Boston, how badly I want to redeem my deplorable 2003 experience there. If I don't make it in this time around, I'll be honest--I'll be devastated. I also realize how much I stand to lose, setting the stakes as high as I am, but frankly, there's not a whole lot I can do about it. The thing's already been set in motion, and short of cutting short the challenge due to, say, serious injury (thank god the knees/hip are holding up), I can't see curbing the momentum. But the apathy--it may be that overextending myself in my training, mentally and physically, is resulting in a sort of displacement of energy. The equation still has to balance, and there's only so much gusto to go around. At least I was able to catch up--way up--on sleep this past w/e.
And the w/e was a nice one. Thanksgiving was perfect--well, as good as I could've imagined, being thousands of miles from home and all. We joined some friends at this super-swank Upper East Side apartment on West End Avenue and across the street from the sweetest little park. The owners: the family that friend Ashley nannies for. They were heading out of town for the w/e, thus suggested that A use the space for dinner (kitchen larger than our apartment), inviting whomever she desired. We gladly accepted, adding to the mix a semi-successful green bean casserole (Thanksgiving's not Thanksgiving w/o it!) and a batch of sinus-clearing glogg. It was the first time I'd tried my hand at the latter, and I must say results were more than fair. Thankfully we left half of it at home, gooseflesh-inducingly strong as it is.
Anyway, I took some pictures of the place--all class and antiques--a few of which I'll post tomorrow. The dinner itself was superb, highlighted by a well-balanced quiche, exquisitely roasted root vegetables (parsnips--yum!), and man oh man, the best Hello Dollies ever to emerge from a 350-degree oven. Then there were the mashed potatoes, the vegetarian stuffing (entire meal was veg, in fact, and to zero detriment), the cranberry sauce, the watercress salad, the punkin pie... all of which held their own.
There came a time, before the Sixteen Candles viewing; before the impromptu soccer game (please, someone buy us a plush soccer ball for Christmas!); before the loopy, food coma-compromised conversation, when I looked around me at the assortment of friends, of friends of friends, gathered around an antique mahogany table worth more than my pancreas (er, wait, actually not my most marketable body part), and thought a simple yet powerful thought: I'm really lucky to be sharing a bountiful, thoughtfully prepared, collectively contributed-to Thanksgiving feast w/ such dear, kind-hearted people. I don't care if it sounds cheesy--it's exactly how I thought it.
Other recent pursuits: Saw this movie the other night, and 100 percent recommend you go see it. Kate Winslet is fantastic, as is Jennifer Connelly. Plus, it's way better than the book, which as you know is a rarity. I found Perrotta's characters to be over-the-top w/o quite reaching the height of parody, although I thought the story would've been stronger if they had. The dialogue was forced and fakey, and Sarah's personality was the least buyable of all. In the movie, on the other hand, Todd Field seems conscious of the stereotypes he's portraying, w/ the (at times) tongue-in-cheek dialogue to match.
Also semi-recently: A trip to the Brooklyn Museum w/ my mom and Peter to check out the current Annie Liebowitz exhibit. While AL alone was certainly worth the trip, we were all blown away by the work of this guy, whose renderings of the human form--some on a miniature scale, others gigantic--are as unsettling as they are breathtaking. His accuracy (leg hair and facial folds are indistinguishable from the real thing) is beyond improbable, and, as I've heard many remark, you really do get the sense that he's "playing god" (or some force larger than himself). After exiting this exhibit, I had to be reminded to breathe.
Finally, I leave you w/ this--a finding courtesy of, once again, the lovely LM. (She has a blog, which I would link to, but it seems the link is perpetually broken, or something.) Take particular note of the spirited comments left by Spaghetti Monster skeptics. For instance:
i’m sure i won’t get a response to this for a while, seeing as you are quite a busy man. but honestly, where are your facts and such. i thought that this was certainly a mind game. i mean, wouldn’t you just be a hypocrite if it weren’t? i’m not criticizing you, i’d just honestly like to know. if the fsm is really an idea just to show people how absolutely outlandish and insane they are, then i admire your work. but if you truly believe a spaghetti monster is your god above all things, then i’m afraid i’d find you to be just as crazy as all the other people in this world living their life according to rules and standards that they have no real grasp of. you’re either brilliant, or maybe just a complete ass. again, i’m not criticizing you, i’m just very very intrigued by this whole thing. thanks, and have a phenomenal day.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Happy Holidays!
May the taste of Thanksgiving forever linger on your tongue.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
My dream du jour
-
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
I'm dainty!
That a perfectly innocuous little treat like that above is forced to share the frame w/ such injurious floor tile, well, it seems a pity. Yet the vision also serves as a note-to-self: post pictures of Apartment Version 40.0. That's right: dozens of takes later, the place is officially ours, decked out to reflect our impeccable sense(s) of style. And while I had my doubts early on, the end result makes for a pretty consistent look--something along the lines of, I don't know, '40s class' meets 'comfortable modern.' A pared-down color scheme and furnishings that showcase a variety of materials--wood, aluminum, Lucite, smoked glass... That grody tile's the only thing left to go, and after last w/e's Home Depot trip--one that had me curled up in a ball halfway down the plumbing aisle, indulging in a tantrum for the sole purpose of getting a little attention already (it frequently occurs to me to post on this city's deplorable customer service record, but knowing I'm almost certain to overanalyze, I squelch the urge)--we've got the means, baby. Maybe this w/e...
Wait, cupcake? Cupcake! The one above is from here, although I bought it secondhand at a bakery on Seventh. In all honesty, it wasn't a virginal tasting--I'd tried Baked's version a month or so back while hanging here. The ruling: Heckyeah! The cake is compact, but not like a rock is compact. Airy, but not like air is airy. The frosting is more buttery than most, and very smooth. Looks like they used a melon baller to scoop it, no? Plop.
Bits
Check it out. Anemones gone wild! I'm so of the mind to make one of these myself. Can't be hard.
This is hilarious (*kindie rock scene*--HA!), not to mention overdue. Surely the hip little lambs of Park Slope earned their own night long before now. The way I figure, it's only a matter of time before Cobrasnake starts callin'...
I have no commentary.
Fourthly, thanks to LM for this sparkly find. Ms. Seattle Bon Vivant is a savvy photographer w/ a proven capacity to make viewers drool. Plus, she's got excellent taste in edibles, if you catch my drift. (Hey Seattle people, do you know about World Cup Espresso & Wine on Roosevelt? You've gotta be kidding me! Where the hell was I? Also, this Mount Baker bakery, this Madison Park paradise, and, and, and...) Mendy, when I eventually move back, we're going on a weeklong cupcake bender.
Monday, November 20, 2006
Yeah Sarah!
Friday, November 17, 2006
Searching for Ballard's Scandinavian remnants
Unless you've been asleep for the past decade, you know that Ballard is now a very fashionable place to shop, party and buy a condo. You probably also know Ballard has some sort of Scandinavian tradition but, as a coworker who recently moved here told me, "the Scandinavian thing seems pretty minimal."
Places change, of course, but this comment made me sad.
With two Scandinavian grandmothers--one Norwegian, one Danish--I feel drawn to Ballard's lingering Nordic-ness. I'm one of those typical American mutts who can trace their ancestry to half a dozen foreign countries but who has scant connection to most of them. That's probably why I get so excited about all the Scandinavian events that still happen every year in Ballard: the parade on Norwegian Independence Day, the SeafoodFest where you can buy salmon cooked by someone descended from Vikings.
And this weekend, there's Yulefest, a holiday fair at the Nordic Heritage Museum where elderly ladies with my grandmother's rosy cheeks and sky-blue eyes will serve homemade pastries so good you'll want to emigrate immediately to Oslo.
While munching on buttery Christmas cookies or watching blond kids parade down Market Street in traditional Scandinavian dress, I feel a misty-eyed (if somewhat vague) connection to my family's past. But, like my co-worker pointed out, on your average day you wouldn't guess that Oles and Lenas used to run the place. So, on a recent rainy day, I went out to search for signs of Scandinavia in everyday Ballard.
First stop: the Sons of Norway lodge. From the outside, it looks like a 1960s-era bank with some Nordic flourishes tacked on top. Inside the lobby, I hear the murmur of conversation and the inviting clinks and scrapes of a meal from behind a closed door. A hand-written sign on the door invites members to join the daily kaffe stua. Every few minutes, someone with gray hair goes in.
Upstairs, a woman answers phone calls from folks signing up for an upcoming dinner. "Lutefisk or meatballs?" she asks each one.
"We need more young people," she tells me, explaining that the median age of their members is 66 and that most of them came to the U.S. soon after World War II. "We start meetings with a list of the people who have died."
On my way out, I take in the new NOMA ("North of Market Street") condominiums under construction next door. The six-story structure is no more than three feet from the western wall of the lodge and already completely dwarfs the Norwegians. The symbolism is not lost on me.
The condos' promotional material promises a neighborhood that combines "Scandinavian roots with a hip, youthful vibe." I try to imagine the future residents of NOMA joining their next-door neighbors for meatball sandwiches at kaffe stua, but I'm convinced they'll pass it by in favor of a martini at the Matador.
To console myself, I head down Market Street for some sweets at Olsen's Scandinavian Foods--the only place in downtown Ballard still selling Nordic food--and am surprised at the hustle and bustle behind the counter. "We're entering our busy season," a woman with long blond hair tells me. But what about the rest of the year? "We have lots of older people who come in every week," she says.
As I continue along Market toward the locks, a sign in a storefront window catches my eye. It announces the future home of the Nordic Heritage Museum--"An Active Contemporary Cultural Center." (Given what I've seen so far, this slogan feels somewhat forced.)
Later I call up the museum and talk to Marianne Forssblad, the executive director. I ask her what's been bugging me all day: How are they going to keep the Scandinavian thing going when all the old folks are gone? She tells me about the museum's efforts to focus on modern Scandinavian culture. They've also started a "Young Nordics" club open to anyone between ages 20 and 45. She assures me you don't have to be from Bergen or Stockholm to join. Many participants are like me--third- and fourth-generation Americans looking for some connection to their roots.
Forssblad tells me the museum plans to move from its current out-of-the-way Sunset Hill location to a new building at the Market Street spot by 2012. There, they will be closer to the action of downtown Ballard. My spirits lift a little. Maybe Scandinavia will stay alive in Ballard for a little while longer.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Exactly!
NEW YORK -- The smell is bad enough to test anyone's gag reflex.
Worse than the stench of death, it's a putrid mix of decayed wood, decades-old dust, mold, vomit, sweat, stale beer, rat feces, a million cigarette butts and fruit so rotten that it actually smells slightly sweet.
So our apartment isn't CBGB, but the description--"so rotten that it actually smells slightly sweet"--well, you'll just have to take my word for it.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
News
Happy Feet'll have to wait.
Last night was my company's screening of the film, but I ended up giving away my invites in favor of attending, on the dapper arm of Pea, the Parkinson’s Disease Foundation’s Third Annual Carnaval at the Copacabana. What a hoot! Man, Julianna Margulies (named honorary chair of the event) chose wrong, lured as she was by something they were calling "another commitment." Bah. Not that I was exactly disappointed. Now Pea on the other hand...
Also, how do you feel about this? I was initially intrigued, thinking, "How perfect would this be when it comes to pubs I don't care to read all the way through--magazines I'm only interested in for one or two columns?" Thought I: "So handy to be able to cue up an essay that ran in a year-old issue of RW instead of having to rake through my ridiculous stacks of glossies." Then the price tag(s) emerged. Man, no thanks.
Also, maybe you'll recall me mentioning that number I put together using leftover bits of research from the old RW/creativity story. No? Well lemme tell ya, after shopping it to Poets & Writers/Writer's Digest/Salon/Slate/others, I finally found it an address: The Writer, a magazine w/ a similar circulation to Writer's Digest (nay, probably smaller), and one I've found personally useful in the past. The kicker: The editor wants not the feature story I'd originally intended it as, but a 300-word blurby thing for the FOB. Phooey. But hey, no real complaints, as I'm just happy to have it out of mind. Thus far I've managed to whittle it down to 320, and w/ a due date of Nov. 20, I should slide in ahead of deadline. Yay for not procrastinating.
Also, I'm sure you'll remember the unforgiving smell I wrote of recently, the one that continues to waft through our 293-square-foot studio. Well, there's a name for it: dead-guy-in-neighboring-apartment. That makes it two in a sixteen-month period. Oh, man.
And now, it's off to this.
xo
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Positive reinforcement
Talk about reward. Last Sunday's 19-miler culminated in a stop by Totonno's, a place that many believe turns out the best Brooklyn pizza of the lot. At any rate, it's on every 'top 10' list I've come across. My take: Very good, though in my opinion, their plain pie is wanting of the deliciously big basil leaves and the copious olive oil of the DiFara variety. So yummy! But the crust was great, and the sauce just fine. Thing is, in the name of accurate judgeship, I should probably hoof it out there a second time, as the hour that passed in between purchasing the pie and arriving home meant that it needed reheating, thereby leaving the fresh mozzarella on the crispy side. Dosed fresh, I have a feeling it'd gain points.
But the run. The run was a trial, in part because of all the power I'd given it before even stepping foot outside at ten in the a.m. It had been on my mind all day Saturday, as I worried about whether I was ready for it, how I'd feel throughout, how I'd deal if the outcome was less than respectable... It didn't ruin my day or anything, but its looming presence did have me feeling a bit anxious--actually, to the degree that it stirred up a nightmare of sorts just hours before my alarm was set to go off on Sunday. The story: I was in the middle of my run--a run that was, in my dream, my January marathon (Phoenix). I'd joined a pack of fellow runners, and I was feeling strong, well-tuned. Well, at some point the group of us lost track of the course, finding ourselves on some random road. Fortunately a race official spotted us and suggested we hop the train back to the designated course, assuring us that our finish times would be adjusted accordingly. This we did. But then, wouldn't ya know it, the same thing happened again. Frustrated but confident that all would be okay--that a Boston qualifying time was well within reach, even probable--I eventually crossed the line. Right about here was when I started coming out of the dream, yet I still wasn't able to determine whether what I was 'saying' to Pea was actual or dreamed. You know how it is: I pretty much knew it was a dream, but there was a last part of me that was refusing to let go. Dream: I asked Pea something like, "It'll be okay, right? They'll adjust my time and I'll have a stab at Boston still, right?" I was pretty convinced, but then Pea came back w/ something like, "No, sorry--and they're not going to give you a second chance." I was devasted. Totally heartbroken. All that training, all that hope... all for naught.
I eventually awoke, although in a rather strange place. Just felt weird to be starting in on such a significant run w/ a vision like that (absolutely a take on the old 'totally prepared for college final only to sleep through the exam' dream) fresh on the brain. But, what to do? Lace 'em up and hit the road, that's what.
The first four or five felt hard. Couldn't seem to fall into a comfortable stride--in part, I think, thanks to my nifty new training tool (borrowed from Pops, actually) that has me a little too clued into pace/time. I eventually found a rhythm, but I've gotta say, at no point during this particular session did I feel totally on. Happens sometimes. (You just hope it's not during the week's longest.)
What was neat was the range of this one. Since I had 19 miles to cover, and since I'd chosen against an out-and-back in favor of an out-out-out (taking train back), I crossed several neighborhoods in the two hours/fifty-three minutes I was on foot, following Third Avenue through Sunset Park before turning down onto Shore Parkway and continuing through Bay Ridge and beneath the Verrazano, putting Fort Hamilton, Bath Beach, and Bensonhurst at my back... Then came Coney Island, which seemed to me a long time coming. Disappointingly--illogically--the Parkway does not turn into the promenade that skirts Coney. Instead, you have to run up into the streets for fifteen minutes or so before turning back toward the water and meeting up w/ said promenade. This made for the most surreal leg of my journey: running across the longest, widest parking lot I've ever experienced. Seriously. Toys 'R' Us, Babies 'R' Us, maybe a Home Depot and/or a Linen & Things... I can't remember, it's a haze. But it was big, and it was pretty empty for a Sunday. I just remember going and going and going, sidestepping an industrial dumpster's worth of garbage as I went (speaking of garbage, a good stretch of Shore Parkway completely lacks trash cans, and it's sad because it's clearly not for lack of residents' concern, as one finds flimsy plastic bags blowing pathetically in the wind, tethered as they are to a railing that spans the parkway). A slow, haunting song entered my ears (music is often summoned during longer sessions), and it made the whole desolate parking lot experience kind of disorienting. Another factor could've been the fast transition between ocean views and the Big Box scene. Still, this is exactly what I've come to appreciate about my New York/Brooklyn runs--that I'm exposed to such variation w/in a relatively small region.
Anyway, I ran the (approximate) one-and-a-half mile, wood-planked promenade, surprised by the number of people walking about on such an icky-feeling morning (humid and sticky, storm on the way). Then again, I suppose that's the constant here, right? People, and lots of 'em. I spotted a single vendor open for business, and let's just say he didn't appear to be doing any. The rides were, of course, not in operation. Most folks seemed content to a) stroll leisurely, or b) park themselves on a bench and admire the view--in some instances solo, others w/ company. At this point--around mile 10--I was feeling heavy-legged, but energetic enough to fully observe what was going on around me.
Then... no more promenade. Again I veered streetward, running past empty storefronts, auto repair shops, and countless bodegas. Before long it became clear I had entered yet another neighborhood: Brighton Beach. I ran down a business-lined street and marvelled at some ambitious Christmas decorating (already!), then I saw more beach to my right. I joined up w/ promenade #443 (why can't they all just fuse already!) which took me past a few family-filled diners that were basically in the sand. I loved this part. Next up, Manhattan Beach, which soon gave way to Kingsborough Community College and my cue to turn back. (Okay, so not all of my miles were unique--I was at 15 when I turned.) Brighton was perhaps my coolest discovery, as I just really dug the cozy and established feel of the place. I was also impressed w/ that college: old and slightly worn, yet well-maintained and surrounded by a large, clean campus. And, you guessed it, it has its very own promenade--one that leads the way to Sheepshead Bay and an idyllic little marina. Never would'a guessed I was where I was.
The last four miles required that I dig pretty deep for inspiration to finish. I mean, not that finishing was/is ever really a question, but when your mind gets to messing w/ you, you start to think that maybe, just maybe, this is the one time you'll cave. But hey, what better inspiration than a top-notch, fresh-from-the-oven (fresh: the intention) pie? I made it to Neptune Avenue (or is it Street?) right as ol' Garmy sounded his alarm/displayed his message (beep beep/Distance Alert, Distance Alert), indicating that, yes Kristen, it's time for pizza.
So what if the train ride back was chilly, lengthy, and observant of a little intestinal stress? It still felt damn good to have that 19 under my belt. That I averaged 9:07 per mile--right about where my longest runs need to be in anticipation of a 3:40:00 marathon--has me upbeat and hopeful in thinking about this weekend's 20. Not sure where it'll unfold, but I have had my sights set on the GW Bridge for some time now...
Too much
Tee, just had--and subsequently settled--a little incident w/ a coworker. A simple miscommunication was at the root of it: I told a different coworker I was headed to lunch, assuming that she'd update coworker #1. Well, #2 got wrapped up in workstuff, thus when #1 asked where I was, she failed to recall that I'd told her I was leaving. Therefore, after an hour, #1 called my cell, leaving a voice mail--"we're just wondering where you are; you've been gone for three hours, after all"--that I didn't receive till after I'd returned to the office. As I later realized, #2 must have been so wrapped up that she completely lost track of things, accounting for the gross miscalculation of my time away.
It's doesn't matter; it's all good now. I said I'd be more clear--to one, to all--about when I'm stepping out. (As it is I hardly ever take lunches, but whatever.)
Which brings me to a point that does matter (to me): I refuse to announce to coworkers when I need to "use the little girls' room," as one woman is fond of putting it. (Have I already written about this? Apologies if so.) I'd just as soon go anonymously, trusting that in the two minutes I'm away, should my line ring, my backup admins will pick it up after the third ring. (They know this; we all know to do this! Anyhow, the odds of my line ringing, as unpopular as my position and I are, are basically nill.) Making this information public knowledge is just, I don't know, degrading. No? Yes. Ugh, it's irritating and it's weird--and even if I choose not to participate, hearing others' declarations is almost as bad. It's like, I don't want to realize that in ten seconds you're butt'll be planted on a toilet positioned ten feet behind my desk. Even worse, that you'll be reading the news all the while! (Seriously, one of our execs routinely walks by my desk en route to the loo, paper firmly in hand, his intention clear. Not OK!) The fewer details I have, the (much) better. Because see, I'm a visual creature, imaginative, and if you plant the seed, I'm bound to water it, to give it shape, in my head.
So please, don't mention it.
Yeah! I'm BUSTin' out.
Click on image repeatedly--should make it bigger.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Day 1
That's why this turn is so jump-up-and-down exciting. It will a) inform/remind the world that the majority of Americans are for human rights/social justice and against the values put forth by the current administration; b) inform/remind the Bush Administration of a mighty lack of support for its wayward style of governing (because my god, this notion was just so unclear before last night); and c) remind us, the prone-to-disenchantment electorate, that it is indeed possible to facilitate change.
I'm positively giddy.
Monday, November 06, 2006
2006 New York City Marathon: Fourth Ave. & 16th St., first men
2006 New York City Marathon: Fourth Ave. & 16th St., early wheelchair participant
2006 New York City Marathon: Fourth Ave. & 16th St., first woman to pass
2006 New York City Marathon
I've gotta say, after reading last month's RW in which Lance was the feature story, I sort of (I'm awful) wanted his performance to fall short of extraordinary. It's just that he sounded so nonchalant about the whole thing, about running 26 miles when his longest run to date had been like 12 (after the issue went to print, he logged a 16-miler pre-race) and his daily runs rarely exceeded 45 minutes. Like he was above the whole 'training thing' or something. And anyway, his goal of beating three hours (or 3:15, at least) seemed pretty far-reaching, even considering his top-notch cycling form. (Two different sports, different muscle groups utilized, different mental challenges...) Plus, at 180 pounds, he doesn't exactly have a runner's physique. So you know, I guess I sorta wanted to see him humbled, to have to acknowledge that, damn, you runners are really something else. I guess it's not so easy after all--even for me.
Ha! Fat chance. From the looks of it/him, it was far from easy, but the man triumphed in the end, earning every last high-five/rump-slap/"beer's on me." He left 99 percent of himself out there on the course, and I don't care who you are or what kind of game you talk, if you can swing that, you're my new favorite person--at least until the next one comes along. He's an amazing athlete, pure and simple.
But man, watching on TV his last mile through Central Park--stony expression, feet that barely cleared the ground, a rare glance at his watch--you knew he'd butt right up against the three-hour mark. Hopefully on the right side of it, but it wasn't certain. God though, to see him slow to a walk a few feet before crossing the line, completely spent, head lowered and hands on knees... Awesome.
Then again, maybe it was all a publicity stunt. Maybe he actually had six months of training under his belt, running 18-20-23 several times over. Haha, but no.
Guess who else did swimmingly? Ol' Pops, that's who. Sure, his time wasn't exactly up to snuff, but the toll of this past month paired w/ a surprise nosebleed (you know, versus the planned kind) halfway into the race meant that the odds were kinda stacked against him. At any rate, he was able to take in/appreciate the diverse scenery the course has to offer, and well, there's no better way to tour the area. I think he'd agree that the lowpoint of the race was the five hour wait between arrival at Fort Wadsworth (Staten Is.) and the sound of the gun. Geez, I realize 37,000 is a lot of people to account for, and I know the logic of erring on the side of too-early, but come on race planners, check the math.
From my perch along Fourth Avenue at 16th Street--exactly two blocks from home (remind me to relay a most pleasant apartment story)--I caught the fast (women frontrunners are above), the not-as, and the in-between'ers. At ten o'clock it was still pretty quiet, but by 10:30 the block was crawling w/ spectators--four deep in some places. I can't tell you how (cliche coming) 'bursting w/ pride' I felt. Since I usually participate rather than spectate, it's not often I get to watch it all unfold from outside the race. It was a really cool experience, and I felt just as aligned w/ the sport and its adherents as I do when I'm in the thick of the pack. There was this 'I understand, I get it, I know what you're going through' component, and it was very affirming. I cheered 'em on for a good two hours (Pea joining up halfway in), unable to lose the goofy smile. Of course, a certain furry someone is partly to thank...
Haha. While I saw Lance and his small army (which included a video camera pointed at his face the entire way) approaching, I didn't have enough notice to steal a decent picture. Just imagine, if you will, that in the center of this group is a dark-green technical shirt. That's him--he really is in there.
At the last minute, Pea had the genius-idea to screw the boring posterboard in favor of an actual being. W/ those fantastically long arms, Petey was a real showstopper, dishing out the finest high-fives in town. You wouldn't believe how many runners went out of their way to slap hands w/ The Dude, some crossing the entire lane just to get a piece of that monkey-luck. The tabby on my head (a few meanies insisted on referring to her as a 'blender cozy'--the nerve), while she lacked Petey's wild animation, got plenty of attention, too. (Thanks Chad!)
Pea was a tireless supporter--of both Petey and the runners. 
One downside: As popular as he was, Petey likely stole dozens of hand-slaps from the pair of ten-year-old girls to our left. "That's the way the cookie crumbles," he said.
I had the hardest time snapping the Petey-pics. I couldn't stop cracking up long enough to do so.
Yea!
"Ouch!" yelped Petey. 
"Daddy, can we do this every Sunday??"
All sorts of costumery to laugh at. This guy, while dressed plainly enough, acted like a costume. So much for tackling the marathon challenge head-on. (Ohhhh...)
Why not?
Wigs were the least of it. Let's see, there was a guy non-stop juggling (not a slow runner, either!), a guy in a tux running w/ a martini glass ('here's to you, Manhattan'--the idea), several lephrechans, tons more... 
'Save the Rhinos.' Best of the best. Here's a better image (different race).
Not sure the intention.
Night before at Jenn's surprise 30th. That's her allegedly being surprised. I had my doubts.
At LES's Basso Est for, what else? Marathon Eve carbo-load.
Friday, November 03, 2006
My friends astound
Yeehaw! Just ran into my friend Jenn, who works in my building, en route to a coffee break. She'd obviously been up to something, judging by her expression and the looks/comments of the two coworkers she was w/. I asked her what was up, and said I'd just have to wait. Thinking that maybe another one of her letters to the editor had been published in NYT, I was prepared to get excited. Then I get this email:
the man standing behind me said i had an impressively steady hand with a camera. i said, "i must get that from my sister." besides, its not like chatting with senator
just another day for jenn rolnick? i don't think so. its a book, but you have to read this e-mail! and if you don't have time, at least go the website http://www.getoutthewhy.org/ Click on "show me the video" and then click on the link for hillary clinton (should be the first one) to see my first ever stint as investigative reporter...but if you have time, read the email first!
what a week. i made my first real argument before a judge Wednesday. when i finished he said, "very good argument counsel." i loved it. loved arguing in front of a crowd.
get in to work thursday morning, still on my cloud, trying unsuccessfully to focus on the nitty gritty. but then suddenly bill is in my office asking whether i have any interest in politics.
bill is the head of my law firm. bill is also, as some of you know, a power broker in Democratic politics. just sitting at my desk i have seen senators and governors walk by for meetings with bill. when i chose to come to this firm, part of my reasoning was, hey, i know i want to get back into policy one day, might as well put myself in the path of someone in the thick of it.
thursday was apparently the first pay off for that decision.
bill's newest project is "get out the why?," a political action group with the goal of lobbying for alternatives to tuesday elections because many americans are not capable of getting to the ballot box on a weekday--especially poor americans. to spark interest, he has asked people to get elected officials on camera answering the question "why vote on tuesday?"
when bill appeared in my office out of apparent thin air asking whether i have any interest in politics, my first thought was "duh." luckily the first thought out of my mouth was, "yes." then he asked whether i would have time to go to an event this morning. although i probably didn't, i knew this was no time for no. could i be ready in 15 minutes? right, no time for no.
jenn
Allover
Who isn't exuberant over next week's Congressional shakeup? Yea! I'm voting w/ three things in mind: life, life, and life.
Here's a detailed rundown of how past presidents have addressed (or not) the issue of women's reproductive rights. For instance:
George H. W. Bush (R) 1989-1993--As a congressman, Bush had been a leader on family planning issues until 1980,* when he turned his back on reproductive health care to be Reagan's running mate. In 1991 Bush led America to victory over Iraqi forces that had invaded Kuwait; however, his presidency was troubled by struggles with economic policy. His determination to make the United States "a kinder and gentler nation" apparently did not extend to women's reproductive rights: Bush continued Reagan's Mexico City policy and endorsed anti-choice legislation, saying, "[I] believe that Roe v. Wade was incorrectly decided and should be reversed."
New artist discovery: love it.
Pizza conglomerate pushes something they're calling Brooklyn Style Pizza. Oh, the agony! Speaking of Brooklyn + pizza, the other day I took the Q out to Midwood, licking my chops at the prospect of some of NY's finest. Ohgodohgodohgodohgod. As I watched Dominic, or "Dom," prepare dinner (no 'pre-made' here), my eyeballs were dangling from springs--gazoing, gazoing. W/ a few flicks of the wrist, a smooth ball of dough became a perfect pie. Dom, hunched in concentration, next coated his palate w/ a thick swirl of basil-flecked sauce (half fresh/half canned tomatoes is his formula) before dropping a big hunk of buffalo mozzarella square in its center. This he broke into pieces, dispersing evenly across the pie. Then it was time for the olive oil, as yellow & sparkly as gold and drizzled generously from a metal pitcher. Amid shouts from what were obviously DiFara's regulars--I'll take two squares, Dom; a pie to go, Dom--Dom slid a spatula (or whatever they're called when they're that big) beneath his latest creation and into the oven it went. The place being packed as it was w/ drooling customers, there was no time to waste. Dom was right back at it, and I watched the scene unfold in precisely the way it had before (he's very meticulous). Had I not been so ravenous, I could've sat there for an hour just watching. Definitely hypnotic. Anyway, my pie came out of the oven bubbling and sizzling, and my was I ready. Paying for my four slices to go (two for Pea, two for me), I knew I wouldn't be able to withstand the 30 minutes it'd take to get home. So I ate mine as I walked to the train, tearing off bites, dribbling oil, it didn't matter. What mattered: I was eating heaven itself--an exquisite combination of sweet & spicy (the sauce), salty (the mozza), and just all-out goodness. The crust was chewy, moderately thin, and slightly charred at the edges. I didn't know, people. Until then, I just didn't know any better.
Marathon weekend's upon us! I'm so excited!!!
*Huh. I didn't know. So might there have been hope at one time? Not that it matters; seems that everything authentic (and these days, who really knows what this means?), once it's cranked through the political machine a few times, turns rotten. Ew.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Last w/e...
Sunday's run to Brooklyn Heights and back via Red Hook and Carroll Gardens unearthed some sparkly new treasures. This RH bookstore was one of them. It popped up suddenly, located three or four blocks down from a more happening two-block stretch (Columbia St.) that houses a couple of bars, a great-looking diner, and an adorable if not random Aussie restaurant. I was really struggling to move forward at this point in the jaunt, thanks entirely to the 40-MPH gusts of icy-cold wind that kept threatening to (literally) trip me up. I was tempted to say 'screw it' and hit the books instead, but I pushed on, determined I'd return later that evening for the event advertised in the window. So I did, following a surprisingly tame trip to the NJ Ikea (free shuttle bus from Port Authority to Elizabeth, NJ on Sat. & Sun.) to pick up a cheap cushion for the chair frame I'd found on the sidewalk a month prior. I got to Freebird at around seven, pulling open the door to see... nothing yet, thanks to that unwieldy cushion blocking my line of vision. After setting it down, I realized that it wasn't my rodent zoo of an apartment where I was meant to live, but this place, this mighty little bookhaven. Because believe me, is it ever mighty. For what it lacks in space (teeny!), it more than makes up for in sheer quantity of reading material. Volumes bulging from their shelves, stacked ceiling-high and teetering, wedged beneath cushy chairs... I think one of the readers said it best: "This is the kind of bookstore that you visit hoping to find a certain book, and end up walking out of w/ a book that found you." Anyway, the reading was quality. I'd missed Robert Sullivan (Rats author), and knew I wasn't gonna stick around late enough for Jonathan Ames (do want to hear him, though), but the readers (unknowns to me) I did hear hardly let me down. I wish I could recall the name of the dude pictured above, because his longwinded, lightning-fast monologue--a commentary on all of the products and events that make up our hyperactive lives--was hiLARious. He didn't stumble once, although I was so expecting him to. It was just unlikely that he'd be able to keep it up at such breakneck pace. Crazy. But yeah, a rockin' bookstore (sort of like that one from The Neverending Story, but way smaller and not dark/musty--so actually, not that similar) that on this particular evening appeared to draw every last Red Hook resident. They all knew each other, they all knew each other's kids, favorite ice cream flavors, sleeping patterns... Strange to see that kind of fellowship in NY, at least in my short-lived experience. Oh, also, as I was still in running garb, I was approached by a well-meaning man intent on delivering unsolicited training advice, which I honestly would not have minded were it not for the fact that his breath smelled so rotten (and hello, me and 'rotten' are well acquainted these days) I knew I was on the verge of passing out right there in the theology section. Something he said did manage to stick w/ me: You can run all the long slow miles in the world, and while it'll give you a great base, w/o regular speed sessions (he was talking hills and fartleks here), you won't get any faster. Sigh. It's true. 
This guy was a surprise guest--a surprise even to staff. He (memory's fuzzy, so we'll just call him G) had come by Freebird earlier in the day, before the start of the readings. Seeing the window poster, he asked the shopowners if they'd be willing to let him 'perform.' Turns out he was born and raised in Red Hook--right there on Columbia Street--and his professional life included a stint in the Metropolitan Opera(!) (He looks to be about 70 now.) Since the evening would consist not only of readers but musicians, he clearly had something to bring to the table. But did they have room for him? Not exactly, but they were willing to make some. Therefore, it was eight hours later that G resurfaced, rosy-cheeked and w/ a stack of memorabilia under one arm. He took his place, not a foot separating him from a crowd that kept getting denser, and launched into a lively personal history. A faint smile on this face, he recalled the days when the surrounding streets were mainly occupied by Italian and Irish American dockworkers, when what is now a cafe was once a modest shoe store owned and operated by his own father. He mentioned the neighborhood's tough reputation in the 1950s (Al Capone got his start in RH), before going on to describe his career as a sought-after singer. He showed pictures of RH as it looked in the mid-1900s, and one of his father that was taken just days before his death. Finally, he launched into a libretto(?), just a snippet, and while he claimed not to have sung in public for twenty years, he sounded great to me. The whole episode was so unexpected and cool, and I could tell all the RH'ers present--and believe me, I'd swear I was the only 'non'--were moved, going up afterward to thank and hug him. I wonder how he feels about the future... 
The way RH juts out, downtown Manhattan is really, really close. The view, spectacular.
I think this is Van Brunt Street--the most 'hipsterized' part of RH. You'll find several restaurants, antique shops (for instance, the one below), a flea market, some bars... Most importantly, you'll find this place, a prominent motivator in getting me out of the apartment. I'd already tried their cc's (ethereal), so I went for a yummy quiche and a homemade 'pumpkin' marshmallow (that's pumpkin flavored, not shaped) instead. Glad to have my windy run behind me, I walked the two blocks to the illustrious Fairway and proceeded to die/refresh/die/refresh so many times I couldn't tell the Honey Crisp apple in my right hand from the bag of roasted chestnuts in my left. Beautiful! Fresh! Cheap! Amazing! If Freebird turns down my offer of rent, I may take up residence in FW's organic chocolate aisle. If they'll let me.
View from higher up.
Brooklyn Heights Promenade--my turnaround point and personal Yellow Brick Road.
Almost affordable. 
Pea's answer to the rat conundrum. Stellar!
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Just last w/e he ran a 16:00 5K!
I've probably said these exact words before, but this assignment was maybe my toughest to date. Because it's just so dang short! I had all this great stuff on Sarig and his culinary background (for instance, he grew up on a collective farm in Israel, spent free time cultivating olives & figs and swimming & fishing in the Mediterranean), and to have to squeeze it (or not) into 200 words was agonizing. The phrasing of the recipe itself was also a little challenging, mostly because of the need to stay w/in a narrow word count. (But I liked this part, and think it'd be great fun to write a cookbook.) Anyway, I'm pleased w/ how it came out. Last night I gave my buddy Sarig a call at his restaurant, wanted to find out if he'd seen it. He had, and except for a minor discrepency in the appearance of the dish* (he generally presents the salmon skin-side up), he's equally pleased. Yay!
"Never skimp on chocolate." Now there's a man after my own heart.
*I prepared the Special for Pea's bday, and while it looked pretty enough, I, gulp, can't take all the credit. Maybe no credit. I bought the salmon already cooked & dressed! Bought it! It was done! All I had to do was heat it up and lay it atop the penne! There, I said it. (Are you reading, Pea?) I lied, I did. Mostly I thought you'd figure it out, but then when you didn't, I just didn't bother to come clean. I did, however, make that tomato sauce from scratch--obvs, given how bland it was.