New Year's Eve.

Here I am blogging at 2:15 AM on January 1, 2011. I'm pretty sure it's the first post of the year, at least on this blog. Why am I blogging now? Well, why not? Here's what happened.

At 5:30 PM yesterday Twila and I went to the Bridgeview Tavern for dinner. I'm not sure what bridge it views, actually, but it might be the Tappan Zee. We've eaten there many times, but I haven't looked around for bridges, that I recall. The Bridgeview is one of the first restaurants that Twila and I ate at on this New York adventure, so we thought it would be nice to eat there at the adventure's end, as well. Dinner was nice, and then we went home to get ready for the main event.

We did that mostly by taking a nap. Since 8:00 PM is our usual bedtime, we knew that our excursion to Times Square at midnight would present challenges. We had a pleasant snooze, and then did final preparations.

We had certainly learned our lesson about dressing warmly. I nearly froze my nubbles off (my spellchecker didn't flag "nubble", and it's not in my dictionary, but I'm going with it anyway) at the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, as you know. And Thursday night when we emerged from dinner at Zuni's the warm afternoon had given way to a chilly evening, so we shivered our way to Grand Central.

This time we wouldn't be fooled. I wore a long-sleeved T-shirt, a fleece jacket, a sweatshirt, and an outer jacket, and I put a furry floppy-eared hat on my head. Heh. Twila wore her pile jacket among her many layers. We were ready.

Ready, as it happened, for a 44 degree night. Not only was the train a sauna, but there was little relief when we emerged from GCT. Oh, well, it wasn't a big deal. Nothing a shower wouldn't take care of later.

We were a bit surprised about how few people were outside the terminal. After all, a million people were expected in Times Square. Soon enough we learned that the million people were there, and they pretty much filled it. Police had erected barriers blocks away to keep the crowd from getting too… well, crowded.

We did our best. At one point one of the numerous policemen turned his back and I quickly hopped over a barrier, only to slip and land on my butt. The crowd oohed and ahhed, but I was unhurt, and I popped up to help Twila over. A lot of good it did us, because it was so crowded we couldn't move. So we walked five blocks away from Times Square, then up to 9th Avenue, and then back. There were barricades everywhere. When we got to 42nd Street we asked a cop where we might be able to see the ball, and he said 52nd and 7th Avenue, so we hied up there. Unfortunately, no balls were visible.

For the next hour we went up one street and down another, toward the square, away from the square, battling crowds and traffic. Finally we arrived at a spot where Twila was able to see the ball with her 24x optical zoom. She took a picture, and then the ball disappeared. We gave up and started the long roundabout way back to Grand Central.

A few minutes later Twila asked me what time it was, and I was surprised to see that it was 12:10 AM. We had completely missed the moment of the New Year. No wonder the ball had disappeared.

We still had a long way to go to the terminal to catch our train. Many of you have walked with Twila, so you know that walking with her is like sprinting. She'd be strolling along and I'd be panting behind her, when suddenly she'd zig and zag and pass a couple of people, but the lines would instantly close and soon she'd be almost out of sight. I'd run to catch up, when I got a chance. It went like that all the way to the station, and it was really a waste, because we were 4 minutes early.

Anyway, we finally got back to Tarrytown at some ungodly hour, hopped in my car, pressed the START button, and… nothing. The dash lit, but that was it. So I pressed the START button again to turn the dash lights off, and they wouldn't go off. I spent some time pulling relays and wiggling fuses and cursing and kicking the tires, but the car had decided not to start, and I couldn't convince it otherwise. Finally the dash lights went off, at least. It was too late and we were too tired to deal with it, so we took a cab home. I decided to have a beer to relax before going to bed, and now I've done that, and I've blogged, so off I go.

Happy New Year!

Adapting.

Yes, next Monday is the last day Twila will be part of this adventure, but this post isn't about that. I'm putting off thinking about that as long as possible. This is about the beginning of our adventure, moving to New York.

When we left our house in the middle of June to fly to NY to check out the area and job, it was very difficult for me. I was emotional about it. I told Twila more than once, "I love our house and Colorado and Loveland. Why are we doing this?" When we drove away a couple of weeks later, moving to NY, it was only a little bit easier.

Then the strangest thing happened. We moved into this small apartment and we had to adjust our lifestyles, but it was easy. It seemed to happen instantly. And, honestly, I could stay here, living in this apartment, living this life. I don't miss Colorado, our house, or our stuff. I know I'll be happy when we're both back home again, but for now this is home, and it's good.

Some of the things we had to adapt to we wouldn't have imagined. For example: we only have one bathroom, so we use it at a lower level of urgency, in case someone might be in it when we have to go; the bathroom is too small for a scale, so we put the scale in the living room, and every morning after getting up and peeing we move the scale to the kitchen floor and weigh ourselves; our dishwasher is small (and horrid), so we do dishes almost constantly; the same is true of our washing machine; our DVR is terrible, but we live with it; Twila's office is in the guest bedroom, but she has adapted wonderfully when we've had company.

People do what they have to do, I guess, and it's okay.

Don't touch my...

...camera! (You probably thought I was going to say, "junk," didn't you?)

We get yelled at with some regularity when we go to the theater. That's because we try to take photos. Always with good reason. For example, last night we wanted to take a photo of our proximity to the stage. Here's the photo:

You can see that I didn't use a flash. And I held the camera low with the hope that I wouldn't be discovered. But in less time than it takes to put the iphone back in airplane mode, the usher was upon us -- admonishing us and, yes, telling us to delete the photo. But then she left, so we know she didn't really mean it.

The show was Colin Quinn: Long Story Short. He told us the history of the world in 75 minutes. We laughed a lot and nodded our heads a lot, too. Durf said he wasn't as funny as Rick Reynolds, but who is?

Heading back to the train, we found ourselves mired in foot traffic. I'm guessing people were already staking out spots for tonight's big event.

As you can see, preparations were already in progress:

Watch for us tonight. We'll be standing...hmmm...somewhere in Times Square.

Things I'm going to miss...

...when I leave NY:

l.

2. Waking up in the morning and thinking about the uncountable number of choices I have for things to do, places to go, people to see.

3. Boarding the train for Grand Central, scrambling for a seat on the west side of the train, putting in my earbuds and checking out the activity on the Hudson.

4. Getting off the train at GCT and knowing exactly which way to go to find the restrooms. (Hey, that's a big deal!)

5. Eating H&H bagels fresh from the oven.

6. Tripping over roots on the Croton Trail. Wait...scratch that.

7. The Chrysler Building, my north star.

8. NY theater
9. NY theater
10. NY theater

There's more but that's enough of this sappy stuff.

I take it all back.

Yesterday when I went out for my run, the sidewalks were clear -- except in Irvington. Oh and except from Meadow Street to Broadway. And from the diner to the freeway, and.... But never mind. The sidewalks were clear enough for my purposes. Furthermore, the mail was delivered, current and delinquent newspapers appeared in the same baggie at our doorstep, the garbage was picked up, and the stores restocked.

What's 48 hours of mayhem when order can be restored so quickly? Yeah, right. Tell that to the 400 people who spent 7 hours on a stranded A train in Queens -- without power. No heat but lots of stinky fear-sweat (or annoyed-sweat).

One of the perks of living in an apartment is that the snow on your steps and out to the sidewalk is cleared for you. PDQ...before you fall or do something equally hilarious and suit-worthy. I certainly don't think Talleyrand Apartments Corp arranges for the shoveling of our steps out of the goodness of its heart. After all, if you happen to own a car that you park in front of your apartment, the fact that it is completely buried in snow and you cannot go to work does not seem to stir the compassion of the men with the shovels. (It did stir the entrepreneurial spirit of the high school kid who was knocking on doors with a shovel in hand.)

Most important in all of this, Metro North trains are running again, which means we can go to NYC tomorrow!

Social networking.

Several posts ago I mentioned my lack of interest in Facebook. A lot of it is narcissistic and puerile. Personally, I have neither the need nor the inclination to twit my activities to however many "friends". That said, though, I think that social networking is one of the first signs of a major and positive change.

Thanks to technology, primarily, the world is gradually evolving into a global society. Communication is becoming more important than, say, being able to carry a 110-pound bag of cement. Facebook, Twitter, texting, et al are the beginnings of a more communication-based society and, I think, signal an inevitable transition from a patriarchy to a matriarchy.

I think men should be encouraged rather than disappointed by that progression. Society as a whole and individual societies will become stronger as it occurs, even though all changes bring temporal pain. Eventually, I think, men will evolve and society will become gender-neutral and the relationships between the sexes (and individuals) will become less competitive and more cooperative.

(Whether these thoughts are worthy of a blog post, I have no idea, I confess.)

Snow Wimps

What is it with New York and snow? It would seem that those New Yorkers who are still employed wake up each morning and look out the window. If they see a flake of snow, they shout, "Whooopeeee! Snow day!" and go back to bed. Those people would include, the paper girl, the mailman, the bank teller, the milkman, the garbage collector -- just to name a few who have disappeared (hopefully temporarily) from my life.

The whole phenomenon brings to mind Obama's comment about his own first snow day in Washington DC. Remember? He said snow does *not* close Chicago schools -- and "what is it with Washington DC?"

So during my last few days here, I'm watching garbage pile up and spill over the bins; I'm digging around in the snow drifts for treasures that might include a newspaper or two; and I'm putting my money under the mattress.

What's more, I'm quite sure I've seen the last of the Tarrytown sidewalks, whose disappearance Durf so colorfully described. I still plan to run, though. In fact, I'm thinking of returning to the Castle on the Hill where, shortly after our arrival in June, I presented my soaking wet body to the Maitre d' of the restaurant and made some joke about wet t-shirt contests. A repeat performance might require a roll in the snow, but I'm no wimp. Stay tuned.

An odd question.

As you might know, we had a little snow - Twila posted a couple of photos this morning. I thought it was great! "No need to worry about going out today," I mused, and settled down on the couch with a crossword. Life was sweet.

Then Twila said, "I think I'll stroll downtown to mail this envelope." (In all fairness, it was an envelope too large to deposit in the mailbox outside our apartment.)

(But, in all fairness to me, it was an envelope without urgency.)

I asked if she was joking, since the snow was almost a foot deep on the steep stairs outside our apartment. "Can't it wait for a day?"

"I just want to get outside awhile."

This is what being married is, mystery and challenge. What was going on in Twila's massive brain, I'll never know. But I do know that our apartment is filled with moving boxes, and I plan to spend as much time with her as possible in the time we have left.

"Okay, just let me finish this crossword puzzle and I'll go with you."

Unfortunately, I've gotten much better at crossword puzzles. In a very short time I was looking for boots and warm clothing, and then it was up to me, of course, to plow through the deep snow on our stairs. Twila followed haltingly. I didn't wait to catch her if she fell, because she would have fallen in a cushion of deep snow.

Our driveway was plowed, so it was an easy walk to the highway. Then Twila was astonished to see that the sidewalks had not been cleared, even though three people walking on them on a clear day would be a high number. She wanted to turn back, but I had gone too far for that.

So we walked through the snow and slush on the road, and most cars had sympathy and gave us a wide berth. Twila mailed her envelope, we went to a bank that was supposed to be open but was closed, and we went to a grocery store that was out of everything we needed. And then we headed home.

We'd only been back on the road for a few hundred yards when Twila stopped suddenly and asked me, "Do I have poop on my head?"

What can I say? Life in New York has been a strange adventure.

Sadness.

Trapped!

This morning, Durf opened the door to get the paper and this is what he found:

If there's a paper out there, we're probably not going to find it!

JFK is closed. Uncle Walter (or his modern day equivalent) has told us all to stay indoors. As you know, that makes Durf a happy man!

What I do.

Today is the 6 month anniversary of the day we arrived in New York. You've heard many stories of Twila's adventures here, exploring museums, parks, catacombs, etc. She did many of those trips alone. I don't much like talking about myself, but I suppose it's only fair to tell what I do during the days.

First, it would help if I mention a couple of differences between Twila and myself. She is Ms. Do-It-Now; I am Mr. Do-It-Later. She loves new adventures; I love familiar pastimes. She has a lot of get-up-and-go; I have a lot of sit-down-and-relax.

A good illustration is Twila's dream life when she's through with her business - she wants to join the Peace Corps. When she told me that, I was like "WHAT THE FROCK?" I've spent most of my life working hard and I'd like to sit back and enjoy retirement. Going to some backwards location to work for free and risk exotic diseases and mosquito bites is not at the top of my list. Fortunately, we aren't going to have to resolve that situation for a few more years.

When I started thinking about this post, I thought that I could say that Twila wants to learn about more of the world and I want to learn about more of myself. Then I realized that I was flattering myself. The truth is that Twila is an ambitious explorer and I am an unmotivated hedonist.

Anyway, most of my days are similar. I arrive home from work at 8:15 AM. Twila has fixed coffee, toast, and a bowl of fruit for me. I plop down on the couch and grab my laptop. I go to yugster.com, woot.com, and freedownloadaday.com. Then I go to sfgate.com/sports to check on the 49ers, Sharks, and Warriors. I don't follow the Giants. After sfgate I read 49er news on an ESPN page. Those are the prelims. At about that time, Twila is ready to go for her run.

"Have a good run, honey."

My exercise these days consists of walking up and down the stairs to my loft office.

After the prelims I read news on CNN, then opinions on the New York Times and Washington Post, then some articles on the Huffington Post. Twila returns from her run and I ask for "l'histoire du jour", and she usually has one. She showers while I read the print edition of USA Today. I pick up my iPhone and do a crossword puzzle, maybe a half-dozen Skee-Ball flicks, and some Angry Birds or Fragger. By then it's 11 AM and I figure it's time to get some work done, so I go upstairs to my office. I sit down at my computer and get busy. The next thing I know it's time for dinner.

It's odd. I always have a list of things to do, but often at the end of the day very few of them have been done. Nevertheless, I usually feel that I've accomplished a lot, even if I can't remember what it was.

Of course, once in a while I accompany Twila on her adventures. Those are good days, too.

Ho Ho Ho

Here's our gift to all of you. We stumbled on this light show last night as we were wandering the streets of NYC, admiring the lights. We were fortunate enough to capture most of it on video and have put it up on youtube for your entertainment!

Light Show

Nevis Labs.

When I walked into work today, I realized that I've posted photos of the optics lab, but not of Nevis Labs itself. It's a place where accomplished astrophysicists and Columbia graduate students work on state-of-the-art science. So I whipped out my trusty cellphone and snapped a few photos.

This is what I see when I first walk in from the hallway.

The gray room is where the X-rays are generated to bombard the optics. They travel through the cylinder on the left.

The gray room on the left is where the X-ray targets are held.

The gowning area for the optics lab is on the right.

The optics lab seen over the techs' workbench.

Some more high tech stuff.

Finality

With about a week left in my own NY sojourn, I've started to notice those things that I am now doing for the last time -- probably ever.

For one thing, I won't be supplying Makayla (gardener Kevin's daughter) with Silly Bandz any more. That means I have received my final way-cool thank you card (note it is actually 3D):




I figure I have about 4 more runs on the Croton Aqueduct Trail, and I'm going to step out and say that I think that trail has soaked up its last drop of Twila's blood. That's because I have now committed to memory every bump, rock, root and rut in the trail within a 5 mile radius of our apartment. And of course, I won't be running there anymore.

And yesterday I had my final manicure at Rose's. They didn't know it was my last time, but they knew something was up when I changed my color from Nomad's Dream to A Oui Bit of Red:














And then of course, there's the blog....

Mark twain!

I read an article recently by a successful writer who warned that a lead should always lead somewhere or else your readers will be pissed off. I suppose that means I should explain the header sometime before completing this blog. Hmmm. I'll think about it.

Meanwhile, I must tell you about the Morgan Library. Like the Frick, the Morgan is converted living space. Morgan actually used the building as an office, library and sanctuary for playing solitaire (while playing hooky from the bank).

I love these types of museums. At the Morgan, not only did I have the opportunity to see some amazing original manuscripts, and a disjointed collection of masterpieces in other forms (painting, sculpture), but I was also able to walk around the library itself and imagine how it would be to have such a space of my very own -- complete with hidden staircases to reach the upper bookshelves. My pied-a-terre will definitely include a library like this.

Morgan was an avid, if sometimes indiscriminate, collector. He did manage to acquire the original Pudd'nhead Wilson manuscript directly from Samuel Clemens. Not surprising since the two men were friends. In fact, they were such good friends that Clemens (who declared bankruptcy at some point) offered to give Morgan investment advice.

I know all this because when I went to the Morgan, I stumbled into a tour of the Mark Twain exhibition which is currently on display. I learned all about Sam's liberal politics, his quarrel with religion, his (financially disastrous) interest in high tech, and his flirtation with parapsychology. Somewhere in the middle of the tour, the docent related the p.c. version of how Samuel selected the Mark Twain pen name. "Mark twain!" is what rivermen shouted when their boats reached a point where the river was 2 (twain) fathoms deep, at which point the boat had clear passage.

The other version of the pseudonym story has something to do with a bar where Clemens ran a tab. But that's too prosaic for posterity, I think.

State of the project.

For at least a couple of months we were informed that the optics lab would be shut down for the two weeks surrounding Christmas, mostly because Copenhagen is not coating glass fast enough - a couple of weeks ago I had two days off because no glass was available. And, somehow, one shipment of glass went to Pittsburg instead of New York, so one of the techs had to fly down to get it.

The project managers wanted to catch up, if possible, so a couple of weeks ago one asked me if I'd be willing to work "a couple of days" during the shutdown. I said sure. Then a memo came out listing 12/18-23 and 12/26 as possible workdays, asking who would be available on which day. The memo added, "We would not work all of these days even if it were possible." Since it was only going to be a couple of days, I said, "Whenever." Then the actual schedule came out and it was for all of the days, which meant I'd be working 13 straight days.

I didn't mind the 13 days as much as having been told it would be a couple of days, and then having it become full-time plus Sundays, which are usually off. Naturally I threw a hissy fit or two, or three, as is my wont, but then I calmed down. Getting double pay will be nice, anyway.

As it happened, I had the last two days (Monday & Tuesday) off because of a problem that caused several broken layers of glass. That's taken care of now, and FM2 is getting glass again. FM1 is off for the holidays. I'll be working Christmas Eve morning (after coffee and the newspapers, etc.), so I won't have to go in at 4 AM on 12/26.

Everyone seems to be panicky that we might not "make schedule," whatever that is. The launch isn't until 2/3/2012, so the optics will be done almost a year in advance, even if a couple more disasters happen. I guess the U.S. Government is really picky about getting things done in a timely manner.

I know this is kind of boring. I'm working on a bloggier blog, at least in my mind.

My First Pilgrimage

As promised, I went to Macy's on 34th Street for my first crowd-practice session.

I made my way to the 8th floor and saw this promising sign:

But I have to tell you, the Santa line was thin:

I found two possible explanations. First, there was evidence that this Santa was a fake. He apparently did not come by sleigh:

And second, once you got to the fourth or fifth floor, you had to ascend by escalators that were built in the Middle Ages (borrowed from the Cloisters, I think). They were cool, but scary as hell. Nobody would ride them:

So, where were the crowds? Two places. Half were on the first floor, which was beginning to look a lot like Filene's Basement:

The rest were in line here (4th floor, cio!):

Hold on to Your Hats!

Durf and I have decided to go to Times Square on New Year's Eve. How could we not? We're in New York. And besides, we didn't get our fill of crowds on Thanksgiving. We're going for the brass ring.

To train for this event, I will travel to NYC every day this week to stand in line to see Santa at various department stores, starting with Macy's flagship store.

Durf's preparation for NYE will involve trying to purchase the real estate outside the Charmin store. (See earlier blog post.)

I Love the Post Office

I think it might be a genetic predisposition. I don't believe my grandmother ever put a letter in a mailbox. She always went to the post office. That might indicate to you a feeling different from love, but to me it showed veneration for the building and the people inside.

And indeed, everywhere I go, I have good post office experiences. When I went to India for 3 months some years ago, one of the highlights of my day was my trip to the post office to mail letters and practice my Hindi with the postmaster...never mind that he spoke Punjabi. We became fast friends.

When Durf and I moved to CO and the county changed our address twice, the post office decided that as long that as the mail had Durf's or my name on it, their people would deliver it to our house. They didn't need any stinking address.

And when we moved to NY for 6 months, I wanted the CO P.O. to forward our mail so that we didn't have to change our address with the doltish companies that still send us paper bills. (AT&T still sends bills to Kelly Beth Court. I know you are wondering when Durf and Twila ever lived on Kelly Beth Court. So are we.) The CO post office has dutifully and efficiently forwarded our mail lo, these 6 months.

New York post offices are a different beast altogether. During my first trip to mail a package, I learned that SOP is to stick the package in this bomb-proof (?) area next to the clerk. You slide a door up on your side, push the package in, and slide your door back down. Only then does the clerk open his side and take the package out.

That first time, I failed to put my door down, not having totally worked out the procedure. After a gentle reminder, I reached over and gave the door some downward momentum. Little did I know it was on ball bearings or something and it slammed down so loudly that everyone in the place ducked for cover. I smiled sheepishly at the clerk and said, "Geez, I guess you need to fix that door," whereupon he said, "I don't know, you're the first person who's ever done that."

But then he smiled in a "bygones" kind of way and asked me how many dozen stamps I'd like to buy.

Where else can you have great experiences like that if not in the post office?

DTRH Continued

As we left our heroes in the last episode, they had finished their Central Park explorations and were hungry and in need of facilities.

Using their trusty iphone apps, they found a promising seafood restaurant within several hundred yards and set the gps to go.

Arriving at the Ocean Grill, Twila made a beeline for said facilities, but Durf was so excited at the prospect of eating for the first time that day, he forgot the second half of his plan...until they left the restaurant.

A slight misadventure on the subway delayed them, but only slightly, and soon they had Grand Central almost, but not quite, in sight.

Unfortunately, what was actually in sight was the site of their 3-hour Macy's Parade vigil, and Durf was reminded of his, shall we say, excruciating experience on that day.

But lo! Just around the corner from their parade spot, they see the following series of signs:

ACK! If they had only known!

Postscript: Now that we *do* know relief will be nearby, we absolutely must return to the Macy's Parade next year so that Durf can actually enjoy it!

Down the Rabbit Hole

I have an excellent sense of direction. Really, I do. However, every now and then, cosmic forces jam the antennae. You know what I mean -- don't try to tell me you don't.

Yesterday we went to Central Park to explore the southern landmarks. It was to be like a treasure hunt. Little did I know.

Everything started out ok. We got off the subway and turned in the correct direction. A key to getting where you're going in NYC. Next we had no trouble locating the holiday shops where Durf intended to purchase a hat, having left his at home. (Huh?) In the end it was a good thing, though, because he got a great hat:

But then the trouble began. We headed north in search of Alice in Wonderland and before long we could see in the distance those damn shops from which we had purchased Durf's hat. I told Durf the shops were supposed to be in the south of the park, but maybe I was wrong, maybe they were in the middle.

HAHAHAHAHA, he responded, and then gently suggested he take over navigation, since his antennae were not jammed. Maybe not today, I thought meanly. But sure enough, before long, we found Alice:

And with barely a stutter step, we found our way to our next destination: Belvedere Castle, the cool (in both respects) weather station in the park:

After thoroughly exploring the castle, we realized we were hungry and had to pee. That's when the trouble started again. Stay tuned.

Of Crucifixions and Sarcophogi

I admit my previous post did not do justice to The Cloisters. After all, it is the largest repository of medieval art (in various forms) in all of North America. In fact, it might be the *only* museum in North America devoted entirely to the Middle Ages.

And why would that be, I wonder. What do *you* think of when you hear the words "medieval times?" Crusades? Pillories, racks, thumbscrews? Pigs feet?

Yeah, so who would visit a monument to those times? That's probably what Rockefeller was thinking too. And so he built this amazingly serene monastery on the banks of the beautiful Hudson River. The building itself is constructed (in part) of architectural artifacts, frescos and stone of the Middle Ages gathered from all over the world. The rooms are breathtaking.

Furthermore, simply stepping into the building works quite well as a time machine. The museum director doesn't even need to hire people to dress in dark capes, paint their teeth brown and talk in bible-ese. Now don't you want to visit, too?

In Search of The Cloisters

Not too long ago, someone asked me if I'd been to The Cloisters. I said yes. But in fact I had not, which became clear during my pilgrimage on Tuesday. (Don't even ask how I could make this mistake.)

Even after I exited the subway, I wasn't sure where The Cloisters was. (I know, the "was" is jarring.) And because it was 20 degrees (wind chill, 2 degrees) no human was in sight. I was on my own.

I headed off in one direction, and despite knowing full well that all of my synapses were frozen solid, I quickly changed my mind and headed in another. Soon this vision appeared:

I wasn't sure what a group of cloisters was supposed to look like, but nothing else in the neighborhood looked remotely museum-like. I headed for the building like a starving (and frozen) monk. Soon I saw this:

Uh oh, I thought to myself. Looks as though I've stumbled on Rush Limbaugh's New York estate.

And then I saw this:

Ah, it must be a joke, I thought. A tiny little entrance sign? Something's fishy. If I open that door, I'm probably going to fall through the floor into a dungeon for left-wing democrats. Mark my words.

Sure enough. And here's what my cell mate looked like:

And now, the rest of the story.

The truth is, in real life Twila doesn't have any wrinkles. She's Twila. She's beautiful. But I was looking for photographs to use in our newsletter, and they were blown up on my 27" monitor. A picture of Twila appeared and I squinted and thought, "My goodness. Is that a wrinkle?" So I decided to heal it with PhotoShop. No matter that the pictures in our newsletter this year are 2" x 2" so there is no way a mark would show, even if it were a bite from a great white shark. I wanted to test my PhotoShop prowess (which is, actually, non-existent). Finally I figured out how to use the healing brush, I eradicated the line, and then proudly showed my work to Twila. Little did I realize at the time that it was an ACK moment.

Twila is wrong to imply she's vain, though. She isn't. She's just... hmmm, what's the word? Oh yes, female. Here's an example. I'd finished a rough draft of the newsletter and I proudly showed it to Twila. The very last photograph, where our signatures will go, was perfect. It was taken at the Macy's parade. Twila and I were next to each other and smiling broadly, appropriately attired in scarves and other winter clothing. When Twila turned the newsletter over and saw that picture, she picked up a red pen and started slashing the photo with lines, each one accompanied by a "NO!"

"Twila," I protested, "you look beautiful in that picture."

Slash, "NO!" Slash, "NO!" Slash, "NO!"

Now that nice picture has been replaced by one of Twila and me wearing, of all things, Indian (subcontinent, not Comanche) attire. How appropriate for Christmas. :p

Vanity, thy name is...Twila?

I was all set to bag the xmas newsletter this year. No software, funky printer, dining room table already full etc etc. Consequently, Durf is spearheading the effort.

Selecting pictures is always challenging because the pictures to which we each have attachments and aversions don't typically overlap in significant enough numbers to avoid heated negotiations.

This year, since I'm being a slacker, I'm trying to keep my mouth shut. But a couple of days ago, Durf came into my office waving a picture of me. "Look," he said proudly, "I photoshopped out your wrinkles!"

"WHAT???!!?" I shouted to myself. To Durf I said, "Oh."

So here's the problem. It's not that I wanted him to put my wrinkly face front and center. No siree. The problem was that he noticed my wrinkles at all. And if Durf notices my wrinkles, what does that say about the rest of the world?

Now, if I had selected the picture and said, "Can you photoshop my wrinkles out of this shot," I would be at peace with the world. But the shock of discovering that my wrinkles can actually be seen by other people was almost more than I could bear.

So I ushered him out of my office and closed the door. Then I called up the spirit of Nora Ephron. Wait...is she still alive?

Being native.

Unlike Twila, I am a native New Yorker. Not The City, but Syracuse, which is a farm town in comparison. But I've spent a lot of time in the Big Apple.

The first time I remember being here I was 12 years old. My great-uncle Tony brought me. We did a lot of sightseeing, and he took me to a Yankees game. It was 1958, and the Yanks were playing the Cleveland Indians, who were in first place at the time. We had seats about halfway between the plate and 3rd base, no more than 30 rows up. I have no idea how Tony got those seats. The Yankees were behind in the bottom of the ninth and Mickey Mantle hit one out to tie it. In the bottom of the tenth Yogi Berra slammed one to win it. It doesn't get any better than that.

One other memory happened after my junior year in high school. My classmate Jack and I visited. We were staying with two of my aunts, who lived in Manhattan at the time. Jack and I were standing on a crowded subway train. We were both wearing red berets, which were hot at our school at the time. Jack nudged me and told me not to look, but that some big guy had made a derogatory comment to him. Naturally, being 16, I immediately looked, but quickly turned away. That guy was really big! He got off at a station in an unsavory part of the city. When the subway doors closed, Jack and I looked at the guy with, I guess, a "WTF" expression. Bad idea. He pushed his fingers between the doors and forced them open, walked inside, and swatted Jack, who fell to the floor. Strategizing quickly, I dropped to my knees to tend to Jack, while praying at the same time. Luckily, we were on the first car of the train, and my prayers were answered. The driver, an even bigger man, emerged from his cabin and asked what was going on. Our assailant fled, much to our relief.

I can't really comment on Twila's statement about understanding people who speak English with an accent. Personally, I have a hard time understanding them. When I was doing software support, I was often victimized by non-native speakers who would call and rattle on for a couple of minutes, after which all I could say was, "Huh?"

I do have a theory about Manhattan denizens. The island has a lot of people squished into a relatively small area. It's impossible to give every passerby a nod and a smile, so you just push ahead as if no-one else existed. I have found it true, like Twila, that if you happen to in some way isolate a Manhattanite, they are very happy to give you any support they can. As long as you're not wearing a red beret.

Love Blossoms

At the risk of sounding saccharine, one of the things I love most about NYC is its diversity, and the utter ease with which its population of colorful characters interacts with one another.

It's true, I am arguably an outsider looking in, and the native New Yorker might have a different view, but this is most emphatically my view after six months in NY.

I am enjoying the fact that the vast majority of those I approach will engage with me and actually make eye contact. And we don't play chicken on the sidewalk. Everyone is an equal opportunity bumper.

As a lover of the Subcontinent, I am delighted that those with East Indian origins do not try to pretend they have no idea where India is or what language is spoken there. A marked contrast to my experience in California.

And native English speakers do not pretend they cannot understand someone who speaks English clearly but with an accent. Furthermore, if someone speaks unclearly and with an accent, native English speakers are more likely to pretend that they *do* understand when they don't. (I observed this to hilarious effect at my local nail salon.)

Best of all, this NY attitude, or whatever it is, makes it easier for me to pass as a native New Yorker, as long as I leave the sneakers at home.

Colder Than a Witch's T**

I don't care what anyone says, the cold is much less tolerable in NY than it is in CO. Relative humidity, wind...I don't know. All I know is that it is hard as hell to step out the door. Consequently, our tiny little apartment is filling up (further) with cold weather clothing. I've gone a little mad in fact. Since I've been here, I've purchased three coats, three hats, some ear muffs, three scarves, too many pairs of socks to count and six pairs of Victoria's Secret underwear.

I know you're wondering about the last item(s), but since I was in the neighborhood, I thought I would check out the VS on the upper east side -- the store that had the bedbug problem a few months ago, remember? And why did I go there? I don't know. Driven mad by the cold, I guess.

The state of stuff.

The Bad News: There is no glass (which comes from Copenhagen after coating) for the optics, so I have the day off. That's bad for the schedule and also because it's another day I'll have to be here while Twila is back home in Colorado.

The Good News: We are scrambling madly to produce a newsletter, minimal though it might be. Success is not guaranteed.

It's the Sneakers, Stupid

When hanging out in a city you love, it is perfectly natural (IMO) to yearn to pass as a native. In NYC, I figured I was halfway there when someone stopped me to ask for directions. But for the first couple of months, if I stopped walking or even slowed my pace, someone would come up to me and offer to give *me* directions.

Every time that happened I pondered what it was about me that gave away my alien status. I finally figured it out. My shoes. NYC females do *not* wear running shoes/sneakers/tennis shoes. The only XX humans in NYC who do so are tourists.

Unfortunately that discovery presented me with a conundrum: How could I possibly walk my typical six or seven miles in boots, or even flats for that matter. It's either running shoes or the subway.

I've been settling for half and half. I take the subway (and leave my sneakers behind) when my destination is more than 25 blocks away. And what better place to feel like a native than on the NYC subway.

It's beginning to look a lot like ...

Christmas in NYC. Check it out:

A thought.

Today.

I'm just standing around and scratching my butt.

Alvin Ailey Rocks...

...my world!

Although Alvin Ailey is wildly popular in NYC, I managed to get tickets for last night's performance. My seat was in the nosebleed section of the nosebleed section, but once the curtain came up, it didn't matter. Not a whit.

It was quite simply the best thing I've ever seen.

That might be hyperbole, but you couldn't convince me today. Maybe tomorrow.

Dali & the Cows

In Denver, public art means cow sculptures. In San Francisco, it means heart sculptures. In NYC, it means Dali sculptures. How cool is that???

I used to think Dali was way too weird for me, but Tanya recently told me that one of the paintings she likes most at the de Young is a Dali. I also know that Tanya has little tolerance for the bizarre -- unless it's truly interesting. A girl after my own heart. So I made my way to the Time Warner Center yesterday to see some Dali.

Here's what I saw:

Hooters! Right there on 56th St. I couldn't believe it. Ok, back to Dali:

Everyone knows that Dali's drapy clocks represent the relativity of time. Everyone but Dali, that is, who says they represent melting camembert. And this next one...

was the weirdest, but an eye-catcher, for sure. And speaking of eye-catchers, I found out I could buy a Dali if I wanted:

But first the pied-a-terre.