Bambu, Sarah and Pablo at the Met

I went to the Met yesterday to see three special exhibits that are about to end, but when I came upon this thing (titled "Bambu"), I thought perhaps I had taken the wrong train and somehow ended up at MOMA.

One possible explanation for the chaos of this display is that the artists did not construct the piece. They conceived of it and then recruited rock climbers to build it with bamboo and climbing rope. Because the assembly instructions were suspect and because the finished product was on the roof, I did not climb in it.

I also wanted to see the fluffy American Women costume exhibit, narrated by the still-reviled Sarah Jessica Parker. It was fun, and crowded.

Best of all was the Picasso exhibit. I mean you gotta love...er hate...er hmmmm...the guy. When I think about him, I can't help conjuring Wilt Chamberlain and Roman Polanski at the same time. Talk about waking nightmares! But I also can't deny that his art work is interesting. And when listening to lectures by curators who think he was a genius, I want to stay until closing time.

Terror in Yonkers

If I had known, would I still have gone? Alone?

Yesterday I set out to continue my tour of the gardens and estates of Westchester County. My destination was Untermyer Park in Yonkers. My research on the park consisted of reading the various pamphlets and flyers I had amassed on the geography, architecture, and landscaping of the estates and parks along the Hudson.

When I located the gardens (within Untermyer Park) I was stunned by their beauty. STG, the layout was reminiscent of the Taj Mahal. I began photographing elements that I believe are evidence of Shah Jahan's influence. But I was just too curious to wait until I got home to confirm it. So I sat down on a bench and pulled out my trusty iphone to do a little web surfing. Then, lo and behold, what did I find?????

Cripes almighty! I was sitting in Son of Sam Park!! Somewhere around here David Berkowitz went into a German-shepherd-strangling frenzy. He participated in Satanic rituals. And he killed people!

After reading about the must-see parts of the park (listed by Haunted Hudson Valley), I was of two minds. Sure, I would be interested in going down to the site of Devil's Cave to look for traces of Satanic activity. But on the other hand, there was NOBODY in the park at all. And the woods were starting to look dark and deep. And I kept thinking I heard footsteps in the leaves behind me....

Where's Waldo?

Yeah, I know the title doesn't mean anything, but for some reason it popped into my head. Twila suggested that today (since it is best if one blogs every day) I blog about my job. That's a good idea, since the project (not my job) is interesting, but nah. Not today. Instead, I'm going to put up a couple of pictures. This first picture came out lousy because I took it with my iPhone, but hopefully you can see it. The thing on the bottom is some kind of horse or ass or something; the thing on the right is a ball of cotton with a face; and the thing on the left is one of the greatest presidents we've ever had, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, so go figure.


Now I'll show you something interesting, one of the greatest engineering achievements of all time. When we moved into this apartment, my office was designated as the loft. It, the bathroom and the kitchen are the only rooms in the apartment that aren't air-conditioned. It turned out to be a problem because there are two skylights, which let in a lot of heat and don't let any heat out if you open them. Therefore, the temperature in my loft office was getting into triple figures. I couldn't even run my iMac, for fear I'd damage it. My neighbor, Christian, whom I was unable to avoid, told me that he vacates his loft every summer and returns when it gets cooler, but I had nowhere to vacate to. So I improvised. I bought a nice air conditioner at Costco. The problem was that there really was no place to vent it, except for a skylight. I couldn't use any of the attachments that came with the thing, because my skylights are 42" long and 19" wide. They're also up, like most skylights. Fortunately, the box that the AC came in provided a neat solution (along with aluminum foil on the up side), and the box that our printer came in was the final piece to the puzzle. Tah Dah!

Where's Rhinebeck?

Durf had the day off yesterday and decided he would tag along with me to the FDR presidential library up in Hyde Park. I knew it would be a gorgeous drive along the Hudson, and as for the library itself, who doesn't have a renewed interest in FDR these days with Obama channeling him and all. Eleanor is well-represented at the library, too, much to my delight. I didn't know that FDR was such a gadfly before he entered politics. Nor did I realize how timid Eleanor was before she was forced into public life. Strange that politics can bring out the best in the likes of the Roosevelts and the worst in the likes of [fill in the name of any Republican].

This is the dress FDR wore for his christening. Yep, his christening. Lady Gaga of the 19th century?

And speaking of public life, as we briefly headed north from Hyde Park, we saw a funky sign on a lodge by the side of the road which read "Welcome Clinton Family." Hmmmm I thought to myself, are we near Rhinebeck or something? Sure enough, Rhinebeck is 10 miles north of Hyde Park. I guess the wedding location is not a secret (or fake secret) anymore.

Clarification.

Readers of this mighty blog might have noticed that Twila posts many more words than I. It is important to remember that that has nothing to do with the sexual stereotype that women talk more than men. NOTHING!

(How's that, honey?)

Bosom Buddies

Speaking of bosom buddies, yesterday Durf and I continued our debate about whether or not New Yorkers are friendly and how said friendliness (or lack thereof) compares to CO's.

Durf's colleague (the one he is *not* bosom buddies with) characterizes New Yorkers as helpful but not friendly. My characterization would be that NYers are brusque but willing to be friendly. Coloradans are extremely reserved, but willing to be cordial.

Neither compares to Californians who are more than willing to tell you their deepest secrets within ten minutes of an initial meeting. Encounter-group-culture residue, maybe? Yesterday, as I was getting my hair cut, I was taking note of the fact that I had been sitting in the chair for 30 minutes and my hairdresser had said nary a word. Then she burst forth with a personal question, "So, what have you found to do in Tarrytown?" Contrast this with my long-time California hairdresser, who upon meeting me for the first time asked, "How do you like my dark roots? I wear my hair this way because my husband likes the trashy look. It turns him on."

I loved my CA hairdresser!

A couple of things.

Yesterday my boss and I learned that we are unlikely to ever become bosom buddies. Oh, well.

In view of recent comments in this blog, I thought I should update my photo:

It's Snowing!

Just kidding. But it feels like it. Temperatures have dropped 15 degrees and the humidity has fallen 33%. I can now be outside for a full two hours before becoming drenched in sweat.

We're still getting used to NY weather forecasting, too. A couple of days ago, fore-guessers warned of an approaching "strong storm." A strong storm in CO would have us battening down the hatches and holing up for a few days. We'd pour our drinks and sit by the window in the living room, listening to the wind howl. And really, you can barely talk over the wind in CO sometimes.

The big NY storm turned out to be about 15 minutes of heavy rain and wind. HOWEVER, the storm did manage to stop the train I was on because tree debris had fallen onto the tracks -- or to be more precise, some giant tree branches had fallen onto the tracks.

Perhaps the difference between CO and NY is that NY has old trees that are poised to come down with the barest whisper of a wind. And of course, CO doesn't have any trees.

Trivia tidbit: The average annual windspeed in NYC is several miles per hour *higher* than any of the larger cities in CO. Oh, and large cities in CO include Alamosa with a population of 16,000.

i just learned that i don't know how to delete a post. this kind of works, though.

Tenements & Torres

I headed to the Lower East Side yesterday to take a gander at 97 Orchard Street, a tenement building that housed an extraordinary number and variety of immigrants in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. This building is unique because it remained unoccupied (except for the store fronts) between 1935 and 1988 when it was relinquished by the family and converted to a museum. That means there were artifacts galore.

My first impression was that the size of the apartments was about the size of Durf's and my place in Foster City. Not true, though. These apartments, at 325 sq ft, were about half the size.

While on the LES, I was also intent on seeing some bike polo at "the Pit" in Sara Roosevelt Park. Much to my dismay, the Pit was empty. Too hot, maybe? I doubt it, because there were (simultaneously) a basketball tournament, two games of soccer, a softball game, and hordes of tots playing in a camel-themed playground.

To cheer myself up, I walked clear across SOHO to Jacques Torres's chocolate factory to see if Skip's positive review of his product was accurate.

On the way back to the train station, I captured this:


I'm afraid my future coffee table book will have to be retitled to "New York Men *and* Women and Their Dogs."

Next to Normal

To continue the theater saga, yesterday was the day we went to "Next to Normal." And yes, it was *another* musical. A Pulitzer Prize winning musical. We laughed, we cried and when the curtain came down and the lights came up, the entire audience was deep in a snowstorm of kleenex.

When we buy our tickets (through TDF) we never know where we will be sitting. We don't get to choose. As we approached the will call window before the show, I saw that the most inexpensive seats were in Row H of the mezzanine. Because the crowd was huge, and because we had TDF tickets, I assumed that's where we would be sitting. And sure enough, when we picked up our tickets, we were in seats 2 and 4 of row H. Up we marched and down we sat. But then, uh oh, somebody else came to claim our seats. We patiently explained to them how to interpret the seating assignments, whereupon they pointed to the word "orchestra" on our tickets. Then they offered to trade. Ha ha ha.

Just a couple of worthless thoughts.

1) Twila said NYC is crawling with 8.4 million people. What does that mean? So far I have yet to see a single person crawling in the city. New Delhi, yes, but NYC? Don't think so.

2) I know I'm late on this, but I'm planning to post a photo of Twila to get even for the picture where I have a weird butt (it turns out the bunny suits make everyone's butt look like that, but no matter.) It will happen.

3) I'm old? Well, okay. I have no defense for that statement. And I have to confess that the cheap tickets almost make it worthwhile.

Old

When I go from the wild west (whether CO or CA) to the east coast, I can't help but notice how old everything is here, relatively speaking. Yesterday as I was getting lost yet again on the aqueduct trail, I stumbled across a cemetery. It's fun to walk through old cemeteries. In Colorado while walking through cemeteries, I will occasionally come across a tombstone and think, "Whoa this guy died before I was born!" In NY cemeteries, I see a tombstone and think, "Whoa this guy died before my great grandmother was born!"

The sidewalks are old too, all cracked and distended. Even the gum on the sidewalks is old. The trees are so old, they fall down at the least provocation. (See July 5 blog.)

But New York reveres old...and treats old well. I know this because Durf, who is old, has benefitted from being old in NY. Because of his oldness, he is eligible for membership in TDF, which offers discount theater tickets to old people, like Durf. And with membership, he can purchase up to 9 discount tickets and take all his friends to the theater. The discount is phenomenal. Example: We have orchestra seat tix for the Broadway show "Next to Normal." Retail price: $121. Durf's price: $34.

We love New York.

Butterflies & Panic

I wended my way to the Pruyn Butterfly Sanctuary yesterday. Anyone who's been to Monarch Grove in CA will pooh pooh the modest number of butterflies that hang out in the wetlands of New York. Bear in mind that these swamps sit right in the middle of Westchester County, only a hop skip and jump from a city crawling with 8.4 million people! Even more interesting, I was the only one at Pruyn! Just me, the butterflies and 92 acres of poison ivy. Perhaps the joke's on me. Time will tell.

The harrowing part of the trip was the driving. I'm still unfamiliar enough with the highway system that every time I get in the car, I fear I will inadvertently put myself on a NY tollway and find myself driving around on it endlessly. ("Well did she ever return, no she never returned, and her fate is still unlearned...dum de dum....") Or worse, I might end up on one of those awful bridges and have an attack of gephyrophobia that's so bad I'll need to be towed off the bridge. ACK!

None of that happened.

Women & the NYPL

Skip wants to know if I actually go along with Durf's comment about female drivers in NY. I'm still collecting data and it's all empirical of course, but my observations so far are that the men will shout obscenities and aggressively move into your lane. But the women will try to run you down. Not surprising perhaps in a city that produced the likes of Ann Coulter.

On to the New York Public Library. Remember the Croton Aqueduct trail I mentioned earlier -- the running trail I had trouble finding and then had trouble staying on? Well if I had run south and stayed on the trail, I'd end up at the NYPL because it sits on the site of the old reservoir.

The library has the feel of a museum. It does showcase a couple of huge, beautiful reading rooms, but its hallowed halls contain no books to speak of. What kind of a library is that? Other than a few reference books, the only books on the shelves are volumes containing images of cards from the old card catalog. If you want a book (and if you can decipher the new catalog system), then you can fill out a form, give it to the clerk and *wait* for your book to be sent up from under Bryant Park (see earlier post). Harumpf! I like a library with books in it, myself. This system works only if you know exactly which book you need.

I wouldn't mind sitting in the gorgeous reading room for a few hours, though -- if it weren't for all the tourists milling around.

NYers, Part 4.

Twila and I have observed that the most aggressive and/or annoying and/or simply awful NY drivers usually fall into one of two categories: little people and women.

I don't mean anything disparaging by saying "little people". I mean they are little people. When driving behind them, the driver's head is barely above the seat back, if at all.

"Women" is self-explanatory, I think.

BP

That would be, Bryant Park, formerly (and briefly) known as Needle Park. My particular interest in the park springs from the fact that its expansive lawn sits on top of the underground stacks of the NY Public Library. I listened for the rumble of conveyor belts, but heard nothing.

I found a free downloadable podcast (for iphone) of a walking tour of the park, narrated by Matthew Broderick. All I know about Matthew Broderick is that he serves as spouse to the much reviled Sarah Jessica Parker. The podcast was great, though, if a bit sappy. He had me walking all over the park, occasionally stopping to block foot traffic, and always looking like a nutcase with earbuds.

The park was once a potter's field, which kind of creeped me out. And during the 70s it was home to prostitutes, pimps, drug dealers and homeless folks, but it was cleaned up and gentrified in the 80s.



When I arrived at the park, I inadvertently walked right into the middle of a yoga class. I suppose it would have been hard to avoid because upwards of 100 people were doing, or trying to do, triangle pose on the upper terrace of the park -- my entry point. This is something that even the exhibitionist in me is not tempted to do.

The best BM *EVER*!

Thanks to everyone for your birthday cards and wishes! I laughed and I cried. Mostly I cried, because I seem to be getting older and older as time goes by. It's odd.

I used to know people who came to work wearing balloons so everyone would know it was their birthday. Even guys! I'm not like that at all. I try to keep my birthdays secret. One reason is that I don't like being the center of attention, and the other is that getting-older thing. As my birthdays approach, I become even more curmudgeonly. But I am up against an irresistible force -- the best Birthday Monster *EVER*, my lovely wife. Her enthusiasm and little surprises and wonderful love wear me down like a stick of butter on a hot grinding wheel. Okay, now I'm blushing.

Thank you, honey, and for everything.

Birthday...and other stuff

Durf's birthday is always an excellent day, but by the time we left for the fabulous b'day dinner, I was all riled up over the Tour de France. And now the secret is out. We're addicted. Just before dinner, we watched Contador take advantage of Schleck's mechanical problems, so Durf and I argued all the way to the Hudson River about whether or not Contador's move was kosher. Feel free to express your own opinion, as long as you agree with me. (Certainly you know my position.)

We were so engaged in our debate that we hardly noticed the rain until we arrived at the restaurant and realized there was a full gale in progress outside the car. We jumped out with our umbrellas and ran toward the building. Durf's umbrella immediately turned inside out, but I had just purchased a cool windproof device that would have worked great if the rain had been coming straight down as rain is supposed to do. But this is not normal rain, this is New York rain, so when we entered the building, my feet were soaked. Nonetheless, I figured I could still enjoy dinner with wet feet. Problem is, we were in the wrong building. We spent the next ten minutes running through the storm into and out of wrong doors. By the time we found the right door, I was a drowned rat and grumpy as hell. I turned to Durf, who was also a drowned rat, but he had this big grin on his face. "What a great birthday," he said. Sounds just like him, doesn't it?

Shorties.

These are amplifications and error corrections of previous posts.

1) My gone-south iMac is 1 year old, not 2. It's still south.

2) I don't like the picture of me in the bunny suit, and BlogSpot won't let me delete it. I'm way used to the baldness part, but what's going on with my butt? Of course, I don't much like being in a bunny suit, either.

3) We went to a Yankee game. Good. That's done. I don't like baseball, but I felt we had to go to one game in the new stadium.

The game was okay, for baseball. We didn't catch any fly balls, but we did drink a lot - beer (mostly), water, and iced tea. The tickets were expensive. Each one was $80 + a $22.95 service charge. Plus $15.95 to email the tickets to us. And at the game it seemed like $20 bills were disappearing from my wallet at an absurdly fast pace.

The first 90 minutes we sat under direct sun. The temperature was 95+, and it was humid. I didn't like that much. The last 90 minutes (which lasted until the end of the 7th inning, which was enough baseball for one year) we had shade, thankfully. (Yes, it was a very long game.)

4) The national bridge tournament that Twila mentioned was in Chicago. It was on that trip that we learned about Dino-Billies and Egg Lemon Soup. We were playing in an early game and I was reading a newspaper between rounds. I didn't like baseball then, either, but I did like Thurman Munson. When I saw that his plane had crashed and he'd gone lateral, it freaked me out. But Twila and I won the event, anyway. For Thurman.

The Mighty Mighty Yankees.

The last time Durf went to a Yankees game in NY, it was 1958...with his Uncle Tony. Yesterday, we went to the glorious new stadium and still felt as though we were walking through history. See if you can find Durf. Do you recognize the man he is standing with?

To be honest, the only thing I remember about him is that his death was announced during a bridge tournament at the 1979 Nationals and I wasn't sure Durf would be able to finish out the round.

Yesterday's game had many great moments (starting with Pettitte's crowd-pleasing, groin-sacrificing play early in the game). It was hot, too, so we were forced to drink lots of beer and eat lots of ice cream.

Our seats, though excellent, were mistaken by lots of people for a freeway exit ramp. And the people sitting next to us brought a 2 year old and a 3 year old, apparently so the kids could play in the spilled pepsi underneath the seats. I don't think one member of that family ever looked at the field during the entire game. I'll bet the pepsi was good, though.

Go Yankees!

Poor Durf! But he always gets a little tense on or around his birthday (Monday!). And besides, if you had to get up at 5 a.m. every day and wear a bunny suit for four hours, you'd be pretty grumpy too.

Here's Durf in the lab:



But today, we're going to the YANKEES GAME. WAHOOOO. That's a cheerer upper if ever there was one!

Stay tuned.

Comments.

I'd just like to make a comment about leaving comments, which some people have had trouble doing. Here is how it works. Under each entry is a link that says, "[some number] comments". Click on that, enter your comment, then click the large "PUBLISH MY COMMENT" button. It works.

One other thing. Even if you want to comment on a blog entry from long ago, please enter it under the most recent blog. Otherwise we'll probably never see it, because going all the way back and checking each entry for comments is... isn't going to happen.

Thanks!

Greetings from the doghouse.

Maybe the title is wrong. I was just informed that I am not in the doghouse. So I guess I'm in the you're-a-jerk house. I'll explain.

Yesterday I got home from work and then dropped Twila off so she could look at trees. After that I had a couple of things to do, one of which was to acquire three feet of wire. You're supposed to be able to buy anything around here, but maybe not wire. I'd looked around a bit on Thursday, but mostly I'd learned that drugstores and many hardware stores don't carry wire. I also asked at work, but that came up blank, too. After all, we're building the optics for a telescope, and electricity isn't a component. I didn't need any special wire, just a few feet to repair the air conditioner exhaust in my so-called office, because it had slipped out of my jury-rigged nail and cardboard attachment to a skylight. I knew I could fix it with a little wire.

My first stop was a hardware store in Tarrytown, at least theoretically. The store got good reviews online. I parked about 1/4 mile away to avoid meters, then walked to where the store isn't. The address is still there, but the hardware store has been replaced by something. So I walked back to my car and took stock of things.

The good news in all of that is that I really don't have to go in my office now, because on Thursday night my 2-year-old iMac went totally south for the 3rd time. The previous two times I took it to an Apple store in Boulder and they replaced the CPU, graphics card, RAM, and whatever. The first time they did that the iMac lasted one day, then the same thing happened. The second rebuilding lasted a couple of months, so I suppose I should be grateful. Apple (not that Steve Jobs has an ego, or anything) calls its repair technicians "geniuses". They aren't.

This is getting too long, so I'll sum up quickly. I dropped the computer off at a non-Apple, non-genius repair place (that was the second thing I had to do). Then I went to two more places that no longer exist. Finally I went to Radio Shack and paid $9 for wire. Along the way I had to deal with many... well, I'll just reiterate my long-held belief that the easiest job in the world is to be an [word that means "anal orifice"] hunter. When I got home I was in a poor mood, and I started to write a blog titled "Crap and more crap," but I'm glad I didn't post it.

While I was writing, Twila came home, and something went haywire. It might have been my suggestion about the direction of this blog, but I did say ten minutes later that she was right. So I don't know. At the moment I'm just keeping my mouth shut and hoping for the best.

Rockefellers

I went to Kykuit yesterday. Kykuit is the somewhat pretentious name of the Rockefeller Estate. People around here like to name their estates. In fact, people everywhere seem to like to name their estates, maybe for the same reason they like to name their cars.

Anyway, I wanted to see the reputedly spectacular Kykuit gardens. I like to look at gardens because I look for ideas for my own garden. Ok, I can hear you laughing from here. You're thinking that with something less than 3400 acres and a few billion dollars the TwiDurf estate in Loveland probably won't have much in common with Kykuit. And you would be right.

To get into the estate you have to sign up for a tour. I figured it would be worth it to get some of the interesting Rockefeller back story. Here's all I knew about the Rockefellers before I went in:

-- A least one of them made a fortune in oil.
-- Nelson lost his bid for the presidency because he dumped his wife and married Happy.

That's it.

But when I came out, I knew a couple more things:

-- Whoa!! JDR's father was unsavory in the extreme.
-- Like Bill Gates, JDR had to be talked into giving away money.

Oh yes, and the gardens and the art in the gardens are truly spectacular.

NY Manicure

I know y'all think I'm living a life of leisure, but in truth I have an office here in NY and I am actually working. Nonetheless, I managed to squeeze in a manicure yesterday.

Please note: manicures are not a staple of my life (although I'm thinking of changing that policy). But checking out the local nail salon is an excellent way to experience a little more of the local culture -- in much the same way my baby sister used to check out the bathrooms in the homes of new friends.

As I opened the door to Rose's Nail Salon, I was particularly missing my sister Tanya. To me, frequenting a salon is a girlfriend activity. I once asked a friend if she wanted to go get haircuts together and she looked at me as though I'd asked her if I could use her toothbrush. "Such a girlie thing to do," she said. Tanya would have come with me though. She's game for *anything* -- although she probably wouldn't let me use her toothbrush.

At the salon, I tried to make friends with the elderly woman sitting next to me, but she was mostly annoyed that I was listening to her conversation with *her* nail tech. Nonetheless, we found ourselves heading to the drying machines at the same time, and she was moved to remind me to press the heat button but forgo the UV -- unless I wanted ugly age spots. Ah, a new friend.

Rats!

Sorry about the cliffhanger, yesterday. I didn't have to swim to the city after all. Durf had left the umbrella by the door (awwwwww). And then he came home from work in time to drive me to the train station (awwwwwww).

Because I had a lunch date, the day was split in two. Obviously, that limited my before-and-after-lunch activities to just one thing...shopping. Newsflash for all of you shoppers out there: If you go to Saks, you will not have to wait in line for a fitting room. If you go to J. Crew, you'll spend most of your valuable shopping time standing in line for a fitting room. Not me, though. I think standing in line to try on clothes is much like standing in line to donate a kidney. Not something I'm willing to do.

Later, walking home from the train station in the rain I was reminded of the time I ran the Point Reyes marathon in a driving rainstorm. At the start of the race, I was leaping over puddles, trying to keep my feet dry. So by mile 2 I was exhausted. But I wised up and for the remainder of the race, I simply plunged into the middle of the puddle and was much happier for it. I had a similar experience yesterday. The sidewalks and streets were filled with water. My detours toward the shallower puddles were wearing me out, so I started plunging in. I continued on my merry way and came upon a particularly wide and deep pool. I had my foot poised to plunge when I noticed an object floating in the water. Yep, you guessed it. A big old (dead) rat! Eeeewwwwww. New York has definitely scarred me for life!

Blasphemous

That's what I'm being right now. Blasphemous. I'm standing at the window, watching it rain and praying for it to stop. Hopefully Kevin-the-Gardener, and all the other NYers, won't find out.

I have a lunch date with a hip 30 year old New Yorker and I'm pretty sure she doesn't want to be seen with a soaking wet, orange-rainhat-clad (especially the latter), obviously-not-a-New-Yorker person.

Unfortunately Durf took the car -- and the umbrella -- to work.

It pains me to buy another umbrella. We must have ten of them at home in CO, where it doesn't rain. It sure does rain here, though. Did I mention it's raining? And that I don't have an umbrella? Or a car? And the train station is 1.7 miles away?

There's only one thing I can think of that might stem my anxiety: Snickers for breakfast.

MOMA... SCHMOMA!

I want to clarify something. I did not ask my colleague what he liked most at MOMA. I mean, why would I care? The truth is that he was at MOMA with his wife and SHE asked him. Geez.

MOMA

I spent most of yesterday at the Museum of Modern Art. Durf and I had planned to go last week, but the day before, he came home from work and related an anecdote. He said he told a colleague that he was going to MOMA with me. The colleague responded that his wife talked him into going to MOMA recently too. Durf said, "Oh really? What did you like best?" His colleague said, "The coffee." So we went to the Natural History Museum instead.

I like MOMA. You can always find something to write home about. For example, one exhibit consisted entirely of the tattered remains of some vertical blinds lying forlornly in the middle of the exhibit room floor. No, really, there were no maintenance people around. It *was* the exhibit.

Later I was in the Female Photographers gallery and I saw a crowd of mostly young people hovering around a glass case. I approached and was about to nudge my way to the front on the heels of the middle-aged woman in front of me when all of a sudden she spun around toward me, pushed me out of the way and scurried to the next room. Hmmmm, I thought, what *did* she see? I peered over the shoulder of the teen in front of me and saw a photo of an attractive woman holding a dildo the size of the Eiffel Tower to her crotch. I don't know if it was the formidable size of the thing that scared my trailblazer friend or the fact that the dildo seemed to be pulsing with life.

Durf and his rocket scientist friends don't know what they're missing.

NY Miscellany

A couple of random observations that are in danger of falling through the cracks:

-- It would seem that if you get mad while driving in NY, leaning on the horn is not sufficient expression of that anger. After you honk your horn, apparently you are supposed to thrust your torso out the window, wave your middle finger and holler at the top of your lungs. Don't hold back, in other words. I actually observed this twice yesterday.

-- Sometimes when I'm running through Tarrytown, drivers stop to let me cross in the crosswalk. Yesterday someone stopped and waved me across. Problem was, he wanted me to cross against the light and in front of traffic that was exiting from the thruway. Hmmmm. I wonder what that means.

-- My good friend, Arthur, once told me that if you couldn't run and talk at the same time you were running too fast. If that is true, then all the runners in NY run too fast.

-- Much to my surprise, I learned that the lovely restaurant, Half Moon, at which Durf & I celebrated our anniversary, is not named after NY's famous half moon cookies. It's named after Henry Hudson's ship. More's the pity. But I did find a wonderful bakery that sells the most delicious half moon cookies. All is well.

Show Time!

We saw a great show yesterday. I have to say "show" because a friend of mine argues (snobbishly) that musicals are not "real" theater.

Well, this musical, "Everyday Rapture," was about Sherie, a half-Mennonite (isn't that an oxymoron?), who escapes Kentucky first, and then Kansas to finally make it to New York where she hopes to become a famous actress, but then she gets pregnant and has to go back home before she rediscovers gumption and returns to NY to finally get an itty bitty part in a play and then...well, you know the rest of the story because it's autobiographical. Hmmm, maybe that doesn't sound terribly interesting, but it was, it was. Think Sarah Silverman meets Doris Day.

Perhaps the best part of the show was a riff on youtube fame, in which a fabulous 15 year old actor plays a teen imitating Sherie in a youtube video. Hilarious, even if it wasn't real theater.

Grousing... BEGONE!

I must say that every single aspect of this adventure to date (post-kidney-stone) (and not including temperatures above 100) (also leaving out some rude behavior) has been a total delight.

Parking

When we first moved to CO, we quickly got the impression that the speed limit signs were strictly enforced. Here in Tarrytown and environs, I am getting the same feeling about parking. Everywhere I go, I see dire warnings, like, "If you park here without a residential parking permit, your car will be towed into the Hudson River."

So where do *we* get to park? I'm thinking they need to raze the Castle on the Hudson, pave it, and then let us non-snooty people park there for free. I'm definitely going to put that in the town hall suggestion box.

Meanwhile, today we're going to the theater. We've been walking to the train station and it takes about a half hour. But thanks to the prayers of Kevin-the-Gardener and his Gardening-Kids, it's going to rain about when we're supposed to head out. I'm thinking that sitting through a play while soaking wet won't be fun. I told Durf we need to leave an hour early so we can look for parking somewhere in the vicinity of the train station. Boy does that cheer a guy up at 5:30 in the morning. Stay tuned!

NYers, Part 3

I have something nice to say about NY drivers. On my pastoral and leisurely commute the lanes are narrow. Apparently the roads were built in the 1700s, when cars were much thinner than the SUV behemoths of today. When there are cyclists on the road, they wisely take a lane, since there are no shoulders and it would be hazardous for a car and a bike to share. Even where there is only one lane in each direction, cars slow for cyclists, wait until it is clear, then pull over and pass. It is almost like France or Colorado.

Yesterday I stopped in the left lane at a light. A woman pulled up in the right lane, which ends only a few yards past the light, so I knew that either she had erred or was planning to scoot in front of me. The latter proved to be true, although "squealed" would be more accurate than "scooted". When I pulled up behind her Ford Grand Crapolla at the next light, I saw that it had a large "God Bless America" decal with a flag, and Wisconsin plates.

"Ah," I thought, "a Republican."

She flew off when the light turned green, but she was still in sight when she zoomed up behind two cyclists. There were two lanes and no traffic, so there was plenty of room for her to pass. She swerved into the left lane at the last moment, then blasted her horn fiercely as she passed the bikers. What can you do then but sigh and shake your head? Some people make the world better, and others are festering pimples on the lily-white buttocks of life.

American Museum of Natural History

Durf came home from work at 8 a.m. yesterday (his story), so we decided to spend the day at the American Museum of Natural History. Oh wait, did I say "at" the Museum? I meant "en route to" the museum.

Part of the problem was that when we arrived at Grand Central, we were starving. All the local taste treats looked marvelous. We just had to partake. And indeed lunch turned out to be delicious, even the $4 bottle of water I bought by accident.

Finally we were ready to take the subway uptown. I thought I knew which train to catch but the train letter I had in mind did not appear on any of the signage. And although I had my trusty subway map with me, I left my magnifying glass at home. I absolutely could not read the damn thing. Because we were in NY where public transit is unmatched, I firmly believed that we should be able to go from anywhere to anywhere in NYC without exiting the subway system in between. (Silly me.) So we (gasp!) decided to ask someone. We spotted a likely candidate standing near the ticket machines doling out unwanted advice to ticket-purchasers.

We approached.

We asked.

He paused.

I helpfully mentioned that we wanted a B or C train.

He raised an index finger, looked at me sternly and said, "You asked, now just wait until I tell you."

After testing our patience for an another minute or so, he delivered his moderately convoluted instructions. When he walked off, Durf and I conferred and decided to follow his directions. He nailed it, of course.

We enjoyed the museum, too, during what little time we had left of the day. Oh, but Durf did find some mistakes. (His story.)

Feeding the Hungry?

I was in the Tarrytown grocery store the other day and I wheeled my cart by a woman standing in front of the grapes, rapidly popping one red grape after another into her mouth. Mind you, I've seen people eat grapes at the grocery store before, but surreptitiously and with guilty expressions on their faces. Oh, and in small quantities.

Then a few days later, I was at Costco and I headed for the vegetable platters -- the ones with a section full of cut-up cauliflower, another section of carrots, tomatoes, and broccoli. I was dropping the platter into my cart when I noticed the cauliflower section was empty. EMPTY! I went back for another and, yes, I saw someone folding back the plastic of one of the platters to get at a section of veggies.

But what tipped me over the edge was this: We bought a small package of snickers bars (you know, a *small* bag with maybe eight mini snickers) at the drug store. I had almost polished them off when I reached into the bag and pulled out a half-eaten snickers. Eewwwww! Sure enough, the other end of the bag had been ripped open.

Is this a New York thing?

NY drivers, Part 2.

My work commute is about 4 miles each way on a lovely, tree-lined village road. The speed limit varies between 30 and 35 MPH. And that is where I've learned yet another truth about NY drivers - they live in deathly fear that you might somehow, in some way, get ahead of them. To prevent that tragic occurrence, they will speed, change lanes frequently, and, if necessary, drive in the middle of two lanes. I find it amusing.

Running in the Heat

Durf claims he goes through life under a cloud of sunshine. Ever in search of cool weather, he promoted a trip to Alaska some years ago, and wouldn't you know, we experienced Alaska's worst heat wave in decades. The parallel to this summer in NY is obvious, no?

The silver lining, though, is that the heat provides Durf with an excellent excuse for *not* running. I, on the other hand, do not feel at home until I've mapped out some runs in the neighborhood and verified that they are runner-worthy (as opposed to jogger routes). Until today, I had not seen any runners. A few crazed noon-time power walkers march up the hill outside our apartment complex each day, but where were the runners? I figured they had to be out there somewhere because the NY City Marathon is only four months away.

Today I found them on another part of the aqueduct trail at 6:45 in the a.m. Ah, now I have a suitable running route. I inaugurated it too, as is my habit. Halfway home, I fell. I don't think I've left any trail I frequent unbloodied. But never fear, the worst thing that could have happened (at my advanced age, anyway) did *not* happen. That's right, nobody saw me. (Did I ever tell you about the time I did a face plant on Market St in SF, wearing high heels and stockings?)

Invoking Invictus

That might be hyperbolic, but this weather can be a bit of a challenge when you want to be out and about. Yesterday I set off in search of the trail that traces the path of the old aqueduct (NY's first solution to water pollution). I was having little luck. (Why do they hide it, I wondered?) Maddened by the heat, I kept wandering off onto tiny little arteries that dead-ended long after warning signs should have been posted. And like the incredible shrinking man, I was gradually being dwarfed by my surroundings. At one point, I found myself standing before a house the size of Windsor Castle debating whether to knock on the door and ask for directions. Having been born a woman, I had little trouble with the decision. I knocked.

The mansion turned out to be Lyndhurst (architectural treasure), and the friendly caretaker, after asking if I was sure this was a good day for a walk, directed me to the trail (which actually crossed the grounds of the mansion).

Hours later I found my way home and went to bed.

New Yorkers - Durf's take.

One would think I'd know something about New Yorkers, since the first 25 years of my life were spent just upstate, but either I forgot, or they changed. Our first encounter with the species occurred in eastern New Jersey. We were tooling down the interstate at 70 MPH, 5 MPH above the speed limit (for safety's sake). It was a sunny, beautiful day, but suddenly everything went dark. I looked in the rear view mirror and an SUV the size of an Abrams tank was about two inches from our rear bumper. NYers believe that tailgating is an acceptable way to convey that they want to go faster than you're going and aren't particularly interested in changing lanes to pass.

I've become very conservative when driving. I don't scream at other drivers (well, I do, but without moving my lips) and I don't glare at them with hatred and defiance. Having decided about 25 years ago that the one-finger salute is the province of the immature and communication-challenged, that gesture also has left my driving repertoire. Basically, I am adverse to being shot. But I am loathe to pull over for tailgaters. So when one appears behind me, the question becomes who will first grow weary of playing and move over a lane. I'm quite good at that game.

NYers are at their best worst, though, face-to-face, which is often how you'll meet them in the aisle of a grocery store. As you peaceably stroll along pushing your cart, you are likely to have one push their cart in front of yours to stop, glare, and wait for you to move out of their way. It is like reverse tailgating. They also tend to leave their carts right in the middle of an aisle, and they studiously ignore you if approach and try to get by. I've already learned to pick empty aisles and no others.

That said, NYers can be quite pleasant if you manage to cut a couple from the herd and engage them personally. On our first train ride to Tarrytown from the city, our seat directly faced another, where one man sat. He almost immediately began to talk at us. I wasn't anxious to look up from whatever game I was playing on my iPhone, but he didn't stop talking. Now that's friendly! Unfortunately, he also turned out to be a lunatic who is planning to run for president so he can unseat Obama. Whatever.

But we do know lightning bugs!

Twila understated, IMO, the serendipity in our escape from being crushed by a humongous tree branch. We were walking at deep dusk down a quiet residential street, when Twila said, "Oooooh, look at the fireflies!" We stopped for about 10 seconds to observe their glittery show, then resumed walking. Just then we heard a loud cracking noise, as if Dumbo had landed in a tree just in front of us, and a couple of seconds later the monster branch and other debris landed where we might have stood if the fireflies had not saved us. I hereby promise to never again capture one of those delightful creatures to put in a jar for "oooh" and "aaah" purposes.

You Don't Know Snooty

...until you've stood before the maitre d' of Tarrytown's Equus Restaurant in your grungy running shoes and 1980's era sweat-soaked t-shirt, and asked to see a dinner menu. Talk about silent treatments. He didn't even laugh when I said, "I'm here for the wet t-shirt contest." It was my first run in 90 degree heat and humidity. I was determined to see the Castle Inn on the Hudson (atop a hill and visible for miles around) and check its restaurant menu for suitable fare. Harrumph.

Durf & I had better luck last night as we walked toward the banks of the Hudson River to catch the fireworks. As we hurried along Riverview Ave, trying to get out from under the tree cover, we were stopped short by a display of lightening bugs right in our path. As we oooohed and aahhhhhed, the tree under which the bugs were flying started to roar and from the sky there fell (at our feet) the entire top of the tree. Talk about signs!

Tripping.

I'm not supposed to post twice in one day, but Twila did, and everyone will soon get bored with this blog, anyway, so I thought I should say a brief word about our trip from Loveland to Lovelessland. It was really uneventful, except for the first day, a day of firsts. That night was my first spent in Kansas City, MO, and it was also the first time I passed a kidney stone. Obviously, I'm never going back to Kansas City, MO.

Comments.

Dear friends, family, strangers, and whatevers:

Near the bottom of each blog there is a thingy to the left of the pencil that says 2,703,442 comments (possibly a bit fewer). If you click on that, you may leave your own comments, which we would love to see! You can see them, too, if you click on that thingy thing.

TwiDurf

Yep.

"Carouse" implies drinking, which was one of my unknown unknowns (that's a long story), so it was, indeed, an inapt description. But I reaffirm the gist of it. Before I say more on the subject, I want to emphasize that Twila did an amazing amount of work so we could move to NY. She even had to relocate her business, which means she had to look through her files. Meanwhile, I was responsible for moving all of our computer equipment, including the network. I also installed a home surveillance system, which took the better part of two days and still needs some remote adjustment. Then we arrived in our apartment, and soon Twila was thinking about guest visits and searching for plays to see. Meanwhile, I was beginning a high stress job, installing balky network equipment, firing our renters insurance company and hiring a new one, battling with our new cable company (and, yesterday, the old one), trying to sort out the numerous expenses we incurred in the move, and attempting to install an air conditioner in my 90+ degree office. And it still isn't over. "Carouse" was intended as a contrast in our current conditions, which will surely improve over time, until NASA starts pressuring me to work 72 hours a week.

Carousing in NY

Carousing? If embarking on a six-hour self-guided walking tour of NYC is carousing, then yep, I surely was.

I went downtown to get the lay of the land, but in my heart, my primary goal was to find H&H Bagels and do a taste test.

A serendipitous byproduct of yesterday's adventure was the perfect idea for my next video documentary. It will be titled "New York Men and their Dogs," and there will be no shortage of material. While strolling through Hell's Kitchen, I stumbled across a young man chasing after a tiny hairy dog. He caught the dog and immediately began wiping said dog's butt with a paper towel. The dog escaped and there ensued another chase, more butt wiping etc etc. Then not a block later, a different young man dashed across my path in pursuit of another little dog. This time, instead of a paper towel, the young man held pinched between thumb and index finger a tiny neon green bootie. Sure enough, the little rat dog had only three neon green booties in place. Soon to have four, though. Will I be allowed to put this stuff on film? I hope so.

So far I love NY.

Anniversary.

It's our anniversary! No, not *that* anniversary – that was June 30 (and we had a very nice dinner in a restaurant on the bank of the Hudson, thank you). What I mean is that today is July 3, and on June 3 at this time I was greatly enjoying my retirement at home in Loveland and had never even heard of NuSTAR. Now we're living in New York City (or close enough for government work), and have already been here a week. I just finished my sixth day of work and Twila is, at this very moment, carousing in NYC.

The truth is, I'm exhausted. This two-day weekend (July 4th), which will be my last two-day break until the next holiday appears, couldn't come at a better time. Hopefully, I will be able to get our &%$*@# network printer working today, install an air conditioner in my loft office (which has been 85 degrees and above every day), and restore some sort of order to what has been constant chaos. I've been leaving work already tense, then coming home to an unending list of chores. The end is in sight now, so I'll be able to go back to normal stress and tension (hopefully). Twila has been a saint to put up with me, and she deserves a break!

The Neighbors

Our neighbors are a hoot, though. And definitely friendly. Getting to know your neighbors is the best part of apartment living imo. I still don't know my CO neighbors, but I have little doubt we'll have more than a passing acquaintance with our NY neighbors before our time here is up.

Our stairwell seems to be a gathering place on hot nights. The adults bring their folding chairs and cold drinks while the kids play in the street. Wheel-chair Robert gets impatient for people to come out so you can hear him calling out to his friends in the early eve. Kevin, who lives in the apartment below us with his three kids, has to serve as sentry during these gatherings to ensure that nobody tramples the garden he and his kids have planted under the steps.

We're all trying to learn names. I've been called everything from Twilight to Toilet, so far. Reminds me of my junior high school nickname.

New Yorkers

Our apartment is in Tarrytown NY. Before moving here, I asked one of Durf's colleages (who is from CA) if he found the people around here friendly. I think I startled him or something because he just looked at me. Then he burst into raucous laughter.

Shortly thereafter, I went to the grocery store. About halfway through my basket of goodies, the check-out clerk stopped all activity and began staring at me. I looked back and smiled pleasantly. She did not smile and she did not continue moving my items to the bagging area. I looked up and she was still staring at me. It was a NY stand-off. I was beginning to think I should see if I had all my clothes on when suddenly she said in a loud and grumpy voice, "ID." (I was purchasing a bottle of wine.)

I relayed this story to a neighbor, who snorted sympathetically and said, "What? She can't see you're old?"

The Apartment

It's a matchbox. The toilet leaks. The air conditioning units rattle the rafters.

Ah, apartment living. Doesn't bother me much, except for one thing. There's only one bathroom. Is there a woman alive over the age of 40 who will happily share a bathroom with a man? I think not.

The Drive to NY

We moved to NY about as quickly as we moved to CO. Enough said.

The drive was time-efficient, except for the fact that Durf had to check out every rest area along the route, and complained bitterly when the distance between blue signs exceeded 25 miles. But that's his story.

We spent most of the first night on the road looking for a place to stay. Another Durf story.

Fortunately, the next night we were planning to stay with sister, Tash. Disconcertingly, when we showed up on her doorstep, she said, "What are you doing here?" Durf and I hoped that his new colleagues in NY would not greet him in the same fashion, come Monday morning.

The Project

Durf will be working on this project (NuSTAR): http://www.nustar.caltech.edu/. I'm totally impressed by people who study black holes and supernovae, but in all honesty, I don't really know what a black hole is...or isn't.

Oh, yeah.

Whoo freaking Hooooo! :p

Six months in NY...the invite.

Whoo Hooooo! I have been invited to live in NY for six months! Check that...Durf has been invited to work in NY for six months. Durf has accepted the offer at my urging, which is probably going to cost me more than I have in the bank, if you know what I mean. But do I care? Naw. We're going to live in NEW YORK!