Brooklyn Bridge is falling down, falling down, falling down...

The following post was done by trained professionals. Do not attempt to recreate these events outside of New York. Children, do not try to imitate these situations, it may result in death or dismemberment.

In the past few days, two dear friends have had some terrible spills as they walked along the streets of New York. My friend, "La Diva," fell as she crossed 76th Street on the Upper West Side. It was a horrible fall and she needed multiple stitches and a black and blue mark covered most of her face.

I spoke to her after the fall and she told me that almost before she hit the ground, she could hear people shouting and coming to her aid. She was helped up and an ambulance was called instantly.

Likewise, the Scottsman, my boss, took two falls. Yesterday he was with his daughter and they were surrounded by people in a flash. He was fine and walked it off. As we were chatting about his fall this morning, I told him about La Diva's fall and apparently he felt the need to "one-up" her.

Today he was walking with a client and fell. Again, strangers crowded around to help him but this time, he fell in front of Hermes. A staff member saw him and insisted he come into the store where he sat down and they offered him a brandy to steady his nerves.

So what have we learned, kids? If you must take a fall, do so in New York City, where help is only a few steps away. When you choose your location, fall in front of Hermes because they offer free drinks for the gravitationally challenged.

Kitty- if you are reading this post, please don't start throwing yourself at the ground for free drinks!

Things we love, Pt. 4- update

If these aren't the Most Important Gawddam Dumplings in the World (tm), why would I wait for 45 minutes to get five of them?

I had time to kill before rehearsal and I decided that I needed dinner. Eldrich is on the way. At some point, though, you wonder if these spectacular, little dumplings are just not worth it. Apparently, they keep one person behind the counter to take orders and then immediately disappear into the back room, never to return again. At least 15 customers were served, ate and left before I received these impeccably fried, succulent dumplings. Maybe it was because I didn't order in Chinese or maybe it is because I had the look of a nice guy who wouldn't blow his top. Of course, as I sat at rehearsal and ate those perfectly created bites of heaven, all is forgiven and the pain and insecurity of waiting in line washes away with each delightful pocket of delicately spiced pork.

Refinement, NYC style.

Standing on the corner of 57th and Madison, a slight woman stands on the sidewalk. She is wearing a black overcoat with a fur collar, black gloves and her blonde hair is perfectly coiffed. She is a little bit older, perhaps in her early sixties, but there is an aura of refinement as she steps off the sidewalk and her high-heeled boots step out onto the street. The light hasn't changed yet, but, like most New Yorkers, she seeps forward with the crowd to get that "head start" on the walk to her next shopping destination. As she stands there, a car goes by her, making a turn off of 57th on to Madison. Perhaps the car was a hair to close to her as it made the turn. That is probably why a $500 glove was removed and a perfectly manicured middle finger was raised as the car roars by.

I'm sure I've mentioned this before, here in the city, obsenity has been elevated from a seasoning to a side dish. In some cases, it's a super-sized order of fries. I'm surprised at how we function here in the city with that slight edge. As I look around and see the gestures and hear the yelling, I wonder if it isn't a means to just "blow off steam." With the crowds and the noise, we all need a way to let go of the anger we feel when we get cut off in traffic or a cab splashes us as it turns the corner. Better a little obscenity now and then, I suppose.

Shooting at the walls of Heartache-- bang bang

Another New York City moment.

At approximately 3:30 a.m. this morning, our front door buzzer goes off. Stumbling out of bed, I see two police officers. "Excuse me, is this the residence of Kitty, uhhhh, Leh, Loh, Looh?"

"Kitty lives here... Yes," I cautiously replied. I didn't want to be the guy to fink on my wife, you know?

"Your car has been broken into and we have apprended the man who did it. Just to verify, you did not ask him to enter your car and remove your property, yes?" It's three a.m., my head is spinning from a cold I'm fighting and faced with all the double-negatives, I utter some sort of reply that seems to make everything ok. "Would you like to press charges?"

I suppose that is the single scariest moment of the night. How do you press charges against someone over attempted theft of two decorative pillows, a set of jumper cables, a kite and a hackey sack? "I suppose so."

"Why don't you come out, I'll show you the car and we'll get the paperwork started."

Changing into jeans and putting on a jacket, I tell Kitty about the situation and I tell her I'll be back in a few. I arrive at our car, parked just down the street and there are six officers standing around. "Yeah, he cut his finger on a fuckin' file cabinet." "Lost the finger at the first fuckin' knuckle?" "Yeah, it got some sort of fuckin' infection..." "Oh, hey Sarge, this the guy from Colorado?"

They stand around looking at the car and I hear bits and pieces of the story. A transit cop happened to be on the platform for the elevated train directly above our street and he saw the man as he broke the window. He ran down from the platform and caught another officer at the entrance to the station and the two policemen bumped into the guy as he was walking away with the items. The arrest was easy after that.

Sarge asked me if I would come down to the station. They'd photograph everything and I could just take it home immediately rather than make another trip down later. The driver looked like Arnold Voosloo and the music was the best of the eighties. I hop in the back of the cruiser and three red lights and seven minutes later I was at the back entrance of the Police depot at Hoyt-Schermerhorn Station. Sarge brings me around to the front desk where almost magically, the same cops are standing around. "Yeah, he cut his first fuckin'..." "Oh, hey, Sarge." "This is Gurnsey, who made the collar."

"Oh, yeah, Tranist makes the bust of the century..." says Sarge.

"You know, it's Grand Larceny if he steals shit out of a car," says Gurnsey.

"Woh, hold on a second, Gunga-din, you hoping to get some bars out of this? He stole two goddamned pillows. What next, attempted murder?" yells Salvatore, the Desk Sargeant.

"Well, there is dried blood on the screwdriver."

"Oh. So did he cut himself?"

"No."

"Shit. Better send that to the lab."

The conversation goes on and soon a copy of the New York Penal Code is brought out and references are being made. I didn't realize that the drafters of the Code dropped the F-bomb into it as much as they did.

"Hey, did you get to question him further?" asks Gurnsey.

"Nah," Salvatore says, "As soon as he got to the cell, he fell asleep. The guy has been arrested like, a hundred times." He then intones,"The Guilty always sleep."

As I'm identifiying items from the car, there is a sunglasses case from Ann Klein. Confused as to whose it is, I need to call Kitty. I'm led back to a room where Salvatore is enjoying a cigarette. He sees me and his eyes get big. Apparently, I've found the last room in the city where a person can grab a smoke. Wait a second, how can a man that big disappear? "Hey kiddo, do you have a glasses case from Ann Klein?"

"Yeah, I think so," she groggily replies and hangs up.

Wait a second. When did she buy Ann Klein sunglasses? I think two crimes were committed here tonight...

Signing paperwork and packing up took no time at all and soon Voosloo was driving me back to the apartment. The Sarge snapped some pictures of the broken window and I'm supposed to expect a call from the District Attorney today.

All in all, we count ourselves lucky. As Sarge said, "It's rare that we are in the right place at the right time like this. Usually we just take reports and it is gratifying to actually prevent something every once in awhile."

The Negotiater

Sitting in a buisness consultation for my singing career, my mentor said, "I know you are thinking of having Kitty be your manager, but, really, can she negotiate?"

I replied, "Do you see that leather jacket over there?"

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Flashback: Two weeks ago on the Lower East Side.

Our idea was to improve my "image" by buying a versatile leather coat that would help tidy me up for the fall and winter in New York. The street was rather quiet but apparently, this was the place to be to purchase leather outerwear in the whole city. We turned the corner onto Ludlow Street.

"Leather Jackets here." "Starting at $100." "Wear only the best leather." "Nobody beats my prices."

Even with only a few shoppers out, the barkers on the sidewalk were practically dragging people up or into their shops. Within this block, there were probably twenty stores all selling similar jackets and leather supplies- and for those of you with sick minds- I mean wallets, shoes and belts. This is a family blog. (mostly)

The first store was up a narrow flight of stairs and the walls were covered with jackets, as were the shelves, counters and floor. We waded through the jackets and tried a few on.

The second store, we were more prepared. It was more spacious and certainly more tidy. Our saleswoman, Maria, said that she had a great deal for us. We found a jacket we liked. "Well," she said, "that will be $425." We both kind of stopped and looked at each other. Instantly, "Ok, for you, $225. That's a special deal for today."

Oh you poor, poor woman, I think to myself. You just showed weakness. The blood is in the water and Kitty is going to eat you alive. I say a silent prayer for Maria's soul.

An eyebrow is arched and a glint hits Kitty's eye. "Well, we really didn't want to pay that much for a jacket." She sounds so innocent and nice as she says it. She leaves the bait hanging in the air. I can see Maria as she looks at the bait, sizing it up, asking herself, "Is there a hook in there?-- nah... There's no hook."

"Alright, for you, I'll talk to my manager." Maria walks away to talk to a man wearing a leather coat.

"What are you thinking? I whisper. "$225 is right in our budget. It's a great coat. Why are you pushing her? Don't you want to buy a coat today?" There is a tone of desperation in my voice and it cracks a little. I like this coat. All I get is the eyebrow.

Maria comes back, "Ok, I'll sell it to you for $175 cash. That's my best deal. I had to get my manager's approval." The man with the leather jacket is taking one off and putting another on. (Wait a minute, is he really a manager? I guess we'll never really know.)

"Well," says Kitty, "can we get your card? We want to look around a bit and we'll come back if we don't find anything better."

"Ok, $150." She's hemmoraging dollars at this point and I am well past feeling sorry for her now.

With a little toss of her head and a flip of the tail, the shark swims out of the store to search for fresh prey. And I, the little fish, hoping for scraps, follow her out of the store.

"Well, I guess that's it, huh. We aren't buying the coat today?" I say.

"Don't worry, let's just hit one more store," Kitty says.

The third store is relatively quiet. As we look at some coats, I try one on, it looks good but it is a medium and I really need a small. All of a sudden, a heavy set man walks up to us. He is wearing white sweatpants and a New York Giants t-shirt and a leather jacket. His baseball hat is old and he looks like he just rolled out of bed. He also is sporting a 5 o'clock shadow that extends down to his chest in his front and to the tuft of back hair poking out from the top of the t-shirt.

"Dats a nice lookin' jacket."

"Well, it's a medium and we were really hoping for a small, "says the Shark.

"Oh, naw... dat medium is great. See, ya want it bigger. Ya know... Everyone wears it big." He tilts baseball cap so that it is sideways on his head. "See, all my buds where a size or sumtimes two sizes too big."

"Well, it's a medium and we were really hoping for a small," repeats the Shark. Apparently, this guy can't tell that she's trying to negotiate.

"Aw hell, I've got one somewhere. Look, I just got another shipment in today." He points to a stack of boxes. "Gimmee a second."

"Wait," says Kitty, demoted from shark to confused amphibian, "How much do you want for it if it's a small?" Apparently, we are really going to have to lead this horse to water.

"Oh, uh, I dunno, what about Onefiddy?-- see, it's lambskin... it's real nice soft leather. So you'll take the medium?" I can tell that he really doesn't want to go digging.

"No, we won't take the medium. Why don't you look for the small and we'll come back later."

As we walk out of the store, I tell Kitty that I'm hitting the wall. I can't keep up this brutal pace of negotiation and my arms are getting tired from trying on all these jackets.

We are not twenty feet out of the door when..."chief... Chief... CHIEF!!!!!" First of all, nobody calls me Chief. No one ever has, why the heck would I start answering to it when its a crowded street and there are people yelling everywhere? Secondly, my unfortunate friend is running down the street, his hand is hanging tightly on to the back of his sweatpants in a failing attempt to mitigate the plumber's crack that is being revealed to those behind him. As he approaches, I can see sweat and toxins pouring down his hairy face. This is obviously a poster child for why we should spend more time playing outside in the park.

"Chief, I found a small... come back... come back..." he wheezes.

Kitty smiles as if she planned this all. We find ourselves walking briskly as he prances ahead of us, describing the Herculean effort of finding this needle in his proverbial haystack. His hand has let go of his sweatpants as he sort of acts out the triumph of finding the perfectly sized coat. We are led on by his tremendous Plumber's crack and we arrive back at the shop.

"Well, $150 seems ok, but we were really hoping to pay $100."

He looks like someone just murdered his puppy. "Oh. Well. Huh." I see the pain in his eyes when he realizes that he was negotiating with a master and it's almost checkmate for him. "Well. Let me... uh... talk to the owner."

A small Asian woman is sitting at the cash register. Kitty moves in for the kill. "Would you take $100 cash?" she starts.

"Cash or credit... makes no difference in price," says the owner. "I'll give it to you for $125."

Cue the whistling music as we are transported to the Old West. Kitty is standing in front of the Saloon and the shopkeeper is by the General Store. They face each other, sizing each other up, their hands by their holstered guns. A tumbleweed blows across the road between them. Kitty is wearing the black hat.

"Well, we'll just keep looking, partner," Kitty drawls.

"$110. Best offer."
"Done."

A look of relief crosses the townspeople's faces as the two gunfighters relax. There won't be any bloodshed this afternoon.

"Give her the credit card," Kitty says.

BAM! "What happened to the cash?" the shopkeeper says as she lies on the street bleeding.

"I guess it doesn't make a difference either way," Kitty says as she nods her black hat, mounts her horse and rides off into the sunset.


++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

"That's a great story and she sounds like she could be a good manager," says my mentor. "But can she do that in the other direction?"

Things we love, Pt. 4

If you have the chance, you can have a dinner for two for $4 bucks. Go to the Eldrich Dumpling House at Essex & Delancy off the F-J-M-Z trains. Head east on Delancy to Eldrich and go two blocks south. On the left hand side, you'll find a small "to-go" stand that serves Sesame Pancakes stuffed with tuna salad or beef ($1.50 each) and 5 perfectly fried pork dumplings for $1.

Rated highly by cheapos and food critics alike, Eldrich Dumpling House is one of those hidden gems that feel like a "best kept secret." We love these our secrets because the tourists won't get past the alphabet soup on the subway and the graffiti that frames the Lower East Side tenament buildings. (Which are really only cleverly disguised million dollar condos).

Best-kept-secrets. We love them and we'll share them with you... if you're nice to us!

Do you feel that breeze?

That's the feeling of salvation rushing towards you at ninety miles-per-hour.

Being a newly baptized Catholic, I've found a lot of joy at Mass on Sundays. Clocking in at an hour-fifteen or hour-and-a-half, it's a great way to get centered. I've been a Catholic-American (is that the correct phrase?) for almost 6 months now. For the first time, Kitty and I took a trip to St. Patrick's Cathedral on 5th Avenue by Rockefeller Center.

The majesty of the Cathedral is unmistakable. Arches soaring overhead, a grand organ, excellent preaching and a sense of tradition that feels like it has travelled across generations all combine to make for a great retreat. In our case, we were looking forward to celebrating All Saint's Day- a Holy Day of Obligation- where all Catholics are directed to attend Mass.

We met after work in front of St. Pat's and ran in. It was very crowded but not too packed. We found a pew near the center aisle with a clear view of "the action."

The opening hymn began and we realized this would be no ordinary Mass (pun intended). One verse later, the Priest was up front and before we knew it... BAM! We were on to the readings. Anything that was usually sung, was spoken. Not 10 minutes into the Mass, we were on to the Homily. Plowing forward, our excellent preacher told a gripping story and as soon as he was finished... WHACK! On to the collection, before that even finished, Father was blessing the Gifts and then... WHOOSH! We were walking up for Holy Communion. We made it back to our seats where we closed with one verse of another hymn.

Final tally? 33 minutes from beginning to end. If they had shortened it any more, it would have been a haiku.

Things we love, Pt. 3

It isn't enough to go shopping here. The experience must be augemented and made as pleasurable. I might have mentioned the music in stores before, yes? Well, to make it official, a kick-ass soundtrack is beloved by all New Yorkers. I'm not just talking about the music in Abercrombie that makes your eardrums pop because of the sheer volume. This is music played at the perfect volume. Good enough to hum along but unobtrusive enough to hold a conversation. If it were a hot tub, the music would be at exactly 100 degrees.

The range of songs are unbelievable. If you are picking out tuna fish at the grocery store, the Village People are a good option. If you are in the pharmacy getting your prescription, it is best to have Marvin Gaye playing.

It isn't just the music, I'm finding that New Yorkers are not inhibited to sing in public. Just the other day in the cereal aisle, I saw a guy do a little spin on his heel as he sang along to D'yer Maker by Led Zepplin. Good music makes your ordinary shopping experience extraordinary!

Full-on changes

Moving

Things change a lot in New York. We now have a new apartment where Franklin Avenue meets Fulton in Brooklyn. It's slightly further out than our old digs in Ft. Greene, but the rent is cheaper.

Kitty and I live in the basement of a brownstone on a small street called Lefferts Place. Nestled between the mayhem of Fulton Street and the car detailing shops on Atlantic, Lefferts is a quiet, tree-lined street. Families hang out on the stoops and slowly you can see the houses are getting repaired one-by one.


A showdown at high noon.

At the corner of Fulton and Franklin, a showdown is going on. On one corner, Crown Fried Halal Chicken and on the other, Popeye's Chicken. Both serve their chicken from behind bullet-proof glass. The best fried chicken is served from behind bullet-proof glass. Popeye's has the consistency of a chain, but it costs more. Crown (a local chain) is much less expensive and in addition to chicken, they serve beef patties, pizza, burgers, gyros, fries (which are delicious), ice cream and popcorn shrimp. You can guess which one we go to.

New sounds

When once we listened to children playing on the playground, we now hear the sound of the mosque, calling the faithful to daily prayers. It's an amplified recording of a man singing and on days when I'm around to hear it, the music reflects our place as outsiders in this neighborhood. For the first time, we are racially a minority, even though we are living with people who are in the same economic level as us.

Sweet Dreams.

As we turned out the light to go to bed, Kitty said, "It's stuffy in here. Would you open the window?" I happily oblige only to hear the sound of a car running at about 9,000 rpm. "What the... " I say. Our bedroom is in the back of the brownstone and it opens out onto the backyard. There is no street there. So what is the car doing?

The next day, I get home late and two men are walking towards the apartment. Our landlord, Vicky, is standing at the door in her robe and the men ask if they can come into our apartment. It turns out that they are from the State Environmental Protection Agency. Everyone on our street is complaining because one of our neighbors has neglected to pay their power bill. Instead, they installed a gas generator in the back. It's late, the guys are tired and they look sort of defeated as they go into the bedroom and pull out some sort of sound measuring device and roll their eyes when they see the reading on the meter. "Yep, it's a violation," says one.

"So, what happens next?" I replied.

"Well, we cite them again, cite the landlord and hopefully in nine months they will be evicted along with the generator. They've already been cited three times."

It's good to know that the city of New York is on our side!

A source of irritation

Moving to a new neighborhood changes your day on a fundamental level. The biggest change is that your commute. In this case, I find myself riding a bus. The bus is a curious environment. It is crowded and there are certainly rules about riding it. Since the bus driver has complete control over the environment, s/he is a bit of a dictator. Not a benevolent one, but a dictator who follows his/her whims. Catch her in a good mood and she will reopen the doors and let you on before the bus takes off. If he is in a bad mood, you may not be allowed on because "the bus is too full."

This was the case last week when Kitty and I were waiting for the B48. As the bus pulled up, the front was full of people. The bus driver wouldn't let us on. "Please, there is a lot of room to stand in the back of the bus!" Kitty yelled. "Just swipe our cards and open the back door."

At this point our bus driver (let's call him Shecky, for lack of a real name), starts motioning to his ears like he is deaf. Then he laughs and does it again.

"Please move to the back of the bus," Shecky half-heartedly announces into the microphone.

Let me interrupt for a moment. In a preliminary assessment of New York Bus Etiquette, it seems that it is not customary to actually move to the back of the bus to make room for other passengers. Even empty seats in the back of the bus must be avoided at all costs. Apparently, ascending the two small steps to the raised seating in the rear is too much of an effort. Rather than moving to the back, New Yorkers will do a sort of quarter turn with their bodies, in a an effort to make a bit more space. It's like one quarter of the hokey-pokey. A hoke, if you will.

Shecky looks at us and makes a chopping motion across his neck and laughs and laughs, then pretends to be deaf again. He shuts the door and the bus slowly lurches off.

Kitty and I start walking and we make it to the next bus stop before the bus arrives. Shecky pulls in, makes like he is going to open the door, then makes the chopping motion across his neck and pulls off, laughing all the while.

We continue our walk and at the next two stops he refuses to let us on. In the end, we walked to my subway stop and Kitty finished the mile-long walk to work. It probably took about the same amount of time as the bus would have taken. Why do we even try?

Messages from the Men's Room

Be warned, this cell conversation takes place while I'm in the bathroom: "Kitty, this is Opera Boy... I'm surrounded by marble. There is a tub behind me, to the right is a room with a shower head the size of a small river... This is the greatest bathroom I've ever visited in my life!"

And so, we are at the Kohler Party at Sky Studios in the Village. The Studio is the top floor of a building at 4th Street and Broadway. It is a loft that opens up to a rooftop with a swimming pool. Kitty and I hit the party just as it opened and our invite thanks to my job at a high end design firm in the NYC. I've been promoted to Assistant Designer (in name only... on weekends I still wear two types of plaid simultaneously) and I've decided to take advantage of the opportunities.

In a way, this is the most extravagent of excesses. It is an industry party for the design trade. The racy picture you see is not actually from the bathroom where I called my wife. Rather, it is from the top balcony looking down on a "sample shower" that Kohler set up to show off the new products that they have. I find it hard to believe that the models could still smile on a windy fall night.

This is one of those experiences where New York City defies all explanation and description. I humbly offer this clip to show what some obscure industry party looks like. I think that Kitty and I have to find the really big parties next.



Rather than describe the party in depth, let me say that this restroom that I had the pleasure to visit was cased by two antique, iron-bound, wood doors that opened into a marble room. Their was a leather club chair and ottoman that sat next to the marble tub with antique fixtures. Facing the club chair was a commode and to the right was a wooden vanity with a vintage sink and mirror. The whole place was roughly the size of our living room.

Oh. The party was pretty good too. Kitty staggered out with a Kohler bag on her shoulder and a Mamoun's falafel on her mind!

Things we love, Pt. 2

Plastic Bags

To illustrate a point, Kitty and her sister-in-law got a slice of red velvet cake at Cakeman Raven, home of the Best Red Velvet Cake in New York. After they inhaled their dessert, they walked up to the counter, saw a black plastic bag hanging from a hook and started to throw out the plat...

"Wait, wait, wait... that's not trash! Those are my c.d's... $10 bucks each?"

New Yorkers carry around plastic bags full of things. In Colorado, one would have a backpack, preferably from Columbia. In Seattle, one would have a man purse from R.E.I. Here in New York, you get little plastic bags and stuff as much in as you can.

Oh, and the other thing? Stores in New York don't spend any money on those fancy plastic bags. In Colorado, you'll get your "King Sooper" bags, clearly labeled with the grocery store name and/or "Have a nice day!" Here in the city, all the plastic bags are white or black, whatever is cheapest.

Frequently, you will see a woman, dressed to the nines, carrying a black plastic bag filled with God-knows-what. Maybe, you'll be in the financial district and see a man in a three-piece suit with a large bag with a toy for his kid.

Plastic bags, not just a socio-economic marker anymore.

Video games in the City

As you know, I'm a bit of a video gamer. Since arriving here, I've not had very much opportunity to play. Ever resourcefull, I have found a new "game" that fills the need. For those of you who don't love or know video games, here are some descriptions of all the games that you will need to understand this blog entry:

Tetris- A game where you have falling blocks that drop down a chute. You rotate them and organize them into lines. Key skills: Spacial relations and timing.

Unreal Tournament- Looking to the picture at the right, you will notice a gun in the lower right part of the screen. Imagine you are holding the gun, running around a "virtual world" and shooting all sorts of enemies. While it looks brutal and socially irresponsible, it is basically a game of tag for grown-ups. Key Skills: Aggression, Hand-eye Coordination, memorization of maps and locations.



A Space Shuttle Launch- Technically this isn't a game. Rather, it is the art of going from a stand-still to very fast in a short amount of time.

If you combine all of these things, what do you have? A taxi ride in New York City. I had the dubious pleasure of taking a cab to a clients house this week and at the very instant I shut the door, the cab went from zero to 35 miles per hour. Pressed back in my seat, the driver laid on the horn and yelled, "Where do you want to go?"

"86th and Park" I yell over the horn and the screams of a woman with a stroller who nearly was run down.

"No problem, buddy!" The cab slices between a truck and another cab with only three inches to spare on each side only to slam to a stop at a red light. As I pull my face off of the plastic divider between the front and back seats, Cabby yells again, "So what are you? Arab?"

"No," I say, "Just American." He asks about my geneology and he roars off again, weaving through the cross-town traffic. As I describe my lineage, I feel myself pulling from right to left in the back seat as he cuts in and out, tapping on his horn and complaining about the sweltering heat and humidity of NYC in June.

I like rollercoasters and rides and I consider my stomach to be stronger than average, but when I got out at the clients house I am thoroughly rattled. I throw some bills, collect my receipt and stagger off, hoping I won't throw up in a multi-million dollar apartment.

Things we love

My initial name for this post was: Things New Yorkers Love. With the visit of my brother-in-law and his wife, I came to realize that we are slowly becoming New Yorkers. Here is a list that is by no means all-inclusive. I hope to keep adding to it as our time here continues:

Birthdays.

In the words of Rockstar, "Your birthday is the one day per year that you get to be fabulous as you hang around with your friends." For his birthday he invested in a swell, white linen suit, rented out the basement of a great bar in the East Village and provided appetizers for about 50 of his closest friends.

A good bargain.

"PradaGucciVersacePradaGucciVersace" drones the men and women on the street corners down in Chinatown. There is no escape from the salespeople as they harass you on your way down Canal Street. This may be the most extreme example of bargains in New York City. Some friends from Seattle, a middle-aged couple, regularly take these salespeople up on their offers. They find their way to hidden rooms, stores disguised as apothecary shops and even mini-vans that sell these knock-off (?- or are they?) items.

It doesn't just happen in Chinatown. New Yorkers find their deals at thrift stores in Chelsea, second-hand stores on the upper East Side, and even bumming rides off friends with cars to get out to Jersey to hit Ikea.

The "Best of"

The signs are everywhere: "Best Pizza in New York" "Best Manicures" "Best Coffee" "Best Challah" "Best Happy Hour" "Best Smoked Carpathian Trout." These stores and restaurants are rated by Zagat, The New Yorker, New York Magazine, Sharkey's, CitySearch... I even saw a sign in the window of one Patisserie, "Best French Bakery"**

Simultaneously Eating and Walking

Self expanatory.

Brunch

On Saturdays and Sundays, the majority of New Yorkers wake up a "little bleary." Present company excluded. Sleeping in is a serious pastime on the weekends and breakfast ceases to be an option by about 11:30, when people start to function after a long night of cocktails, cab rides and clubbing. Restaurants are always ones to support the vices of their customers and so... Brunch was invented. You put a little bit of everything on the menu, add a Bloody Mary or glass of Champagne to help ease the blow of sunshine, and then- if it is summer- add street seating. The New Yorker, in its natural habitat will flock to your business, describe it as "yummy" and (of course) "the best Brunch in the City." Sit back and print your own money.

Tapas/Prix Fixe

This is where Restraunteurs get really sneaky. They give you a small plate of food that is half the size of a normal portion, they charge one third that of a normal meal and then they convince New Yorkers that they should get four or five plates to share between them and their dates. Does this seem fair? Does this seem right? No. But when Essence of Truffle Oil is on the line, the average New Yorker can't say "no." New Yorkers love Tapas- Spanish for "small plate" or "appetizer"- English for "take the trust fund babies for everything they are worth."

When a Restaurant becomes "hip," they move on to the Prix Fixe. You pay a flat rate per person and you get an appetizer, main course and dessert. The portion sizes are generally smaller than regular meals and you only have three options for each. This cuts down on the variety of ingredients that the Restraunteur has to buy and increases the over cost margins for each person. Prix Fixes range from $10/person in the Outer Boroughs to "your first born child" at the top of Colombus Circle at Masa. Despite these facts, New Yorkers continue to flock to Prix Fixe as a way to stretch the buck, get a deal, and get our monthly serving of Essence of Truffle Oil.

**As rated by their employees.

It's Fleet Week!

Ah Fleet Week... Sailors come to NYC for some well-deserved R&R. Those of you who are "Sex in the City" fans should know how important and special this time can be. In their honor, we see the Empire State Building lit up in red, white and blue.

To celebrate, Kitty and I went to the City Ballet. In addition to some Stravinsky and Bartok, the program included "Fun and Fancy Free"- a Jerome Robbins' choreographed ballet with music by Leondard Bernstein. It was Robbins' first big hit and it tells the story of three sailors in New York on a hot summer night. They are out drinking and carousing. It's a charming work that drips with personality and boundless enthusiasm.

The ballet has been a wonderful addition to our life in NYC. Though Kitty is the one with a nose for bargains, I scored a coup and discovered the Fourth Circle Society. For a fee of $30, you can buy two tickets per show for $15 each. We have attended twice so far and are going back next Friday as well.

The tickets that you get are up on the very top level of the theater. The views are very good, but at the first break, we traditionally will get up and move to better seats. Last night we saw a group of five people come in just as the curtain was going up. As they were led to their seats by the usher, they turned off and parked themselves in seats that were obviously not theirs but still empty. The usher walked on for about 15 feet before she realized she was alone and then turned around and proceeded to chew them out for taking better seats than they paid for. Of course, they just ignored her. She returned with her supervisor and they both were ignored for another few minutes until they gave up in disgust.

New York is like that. High-brow and low-brow collide in every part of the city at every moment. No place is safe from these accidents and I would have nothing to write about if it wasn't that way.

My little toe has never looked so good.

Experimentation is the key to enjoying oneself in the city. New restaurants, new museums, and new neighborhoods make up for the crowds, the dirt and the endless commuting. With a big and fancy party coming up tonight, Kitty thought she would push my boundries a bit last night. We met at our neighborhood nail salon and while she primped for the party, I got my very first pedicure.

Pedicures are quite an event. Not knowing what to expect, I made quite a few mistakes. I put my feet in the water at the wrong times and I writhed a bit during some of the scrubbing. In the end, though, the whole process was much more relaxing than I thought. Yes, I was the only guy in there, but I'm tough and rugged and I can handle the pressure.

My best high school friends are coming into town in a month or so. We are going to hit some comic stores, see some movies, eat curry and have a guys weekend. It would absolutely crack me up to see Slim Jim, RoboGuy and the Corporate Avenger sitting next to me with our feet in tubs of hot water. Somehow, I don't think it will happen.

I can't quit you.

Kitty and I recently returned from our honeymoon in Sonoma and Napa. It was a fantastic trip that included much tasting of wine and fine food, we headed out to Point Reyes on the California Coast.

As a surprise, I planned a horseback ride through the hills of Point Reyes National Seashore. It would have been a lovely surprise, but as we sat at breakfast, one of the staff who helped me organize it came up to us and said, "Sooooooo.... today is the big horseback ride, huh?" Kitty roared with laughter as she saw my face twist in horror that the surprise was shattered. She tried to console me all morning.

The ride itself was pretty fun. Kitty was so happy with it. The bad news? We renamed our horses, Dusty and Jack, to Apathy and Lethargy. They were ancient horses and mine, Lethargy, had emphysema and would cough like he was dying as he trudged and tripped up the small hills we rode up. We were consistently 25 yards behind the rest of the group and no amount of yelling at those horses would get them to catch up. That made the ride a little stressful. I kept saying to Lethargy, "Choose Life!" and "Don't walk into the Light!" and "Dear Sweet Jesus, don't die until we get back to the camp!" We made light of it all after a while and would yell back and forth, with our lips pressed together, "I can't quit you!" and "I swear to you, Jack Twist" and roar with laughter. (See Brokeback Mountain...) I think the guy leading our little group thought we were crazy. Riding horses is definitely out of my comfort zone.

If you wait on the corner of Lafayette and Clinton, the whole world will walk by you.

As we walked home from church on Sunday, Kitty and I saw the most amazingly convenient service that New York City has ever offered to us: Bob's Tool Service. If I haven't mentioned it before, let me reiterate: If there is a way to make a buck, it's already been dreamed up in this city. Now back to the van:

This large green van has a generator in it and window. Parked on the corner like the grown-up equivalent of Mr. Softee, adults look out the window, clap their hands, grab all their kitchen knives and their wallet and line up to have Bob the Sharpener get all of their knives sharp enough to cut paper!

Would it work anywhere else on this earth? Maybe not. Allow me to offer a corollary to my earlier point: If there is a way to spend a buck, it's already been dreamed up in this city.

Can you dig it, baby?

Over the past two days, we lived through our first, honest-to-God, New York City snowstorm. It makes me wonder why our city's founding parents did not find it down south by about 400 miles. When everything was said and done, 26.5 inches of snow landed in Central Park over the last two days. Yet another historic moment for us.

Dateline: Saturday. The snow begins. I'm out with Rockstar, my old friend from Penfield, New York. Where we grew up, we knew snow. Being a couple of hardy guys, we hit the streets to run some errands. Sure, it was snowing, but it wasn't really accumulating. After some light shopping, we walked over to the Lower East Side to hit 'inoteca, a hot new restaurant. Rockstar knows the sous-chef, who treated us like royalty as we sat at the bar. The guy sitting next to Rockstar asked if we were celebrities because we were getting unexpected plates of food as we enjoyed our wine. Not a bad way to start off the snowstorm! I had to ditch Rockstar early on. He was off to grab a three-course dessert at an Alphabet City cafe. If I joined him for something like that without Kitty, I'd be in the doghouse!

Dateline: Sunday. Church is skipped. I can't see out the window at the apartment. I know that it is only two blocks away. The accumulation overnight was spectacular. Our one, ill-fated trip out of the house was when dinner time was fast approaching. We put on our severe weather wear from REI and head out, empty-stomached, to Chipotle. Two subways later and a long walk through the heart of downtown Brooklyn, we open the doors to Chipotle. The smell hits us... disinfectant. "We ain't open... ran outta food," she yells. "We've got a coupon for a free burrito. It expires tomorrow and we'll be out of town..." I glibly lie. "I'll give you real coupons for two free... get in here," she yells back. I'm seeing black spots from hunger and I fight off my light-headedness as I stagger to the back. "What now?" I ask Kitty. "Why home, of course!" she says. We hike back through the occasionally waist-deep snow to the subway and then after about a half hour subway ride, we head home.

Dateline: Monday. Kitty has a snow day and I depart for the office as she sits on the couch, sipping coffee and reading a book. The sidewalks are remarkably clear due to the almost fascist shoveling laws in the city. Owners of buildings can be fined if the sidewalks are not clear by 11 p.m. during snowstorms and then again at 9 a.m. the day after. (I could be wrong about this, if I were a real writer, I'd research it. It is something nearly as draconian, though, and I am grateful.) Curse the MTA! They still are running. The door to my building is about twenty feet from the entrance to the G-train. So far so good. The station is a ghost town complete with gusts of wind blowing a lonely, crumpled newspaper. The train is similarly quiet as I start the commute.

By the time I reach downtown, the sun is bright and the skies are blue-steel. Now the fun begins. I am transformed into a polar bear, leaping from iceberg to iceberg (in my crummy sneakers). There are narrow paths carved through the snow, but at intersections, I must jump over rivers of slush and melted snow that back up the drain systems.

I am currently reading Winterdance: The fine madness of running the Iditerod. I imagine myself being led by a pack of dogs, roaring down 57th street screaming "Mush, Mush! I've got a 9 a.m. with millionaire clients!" I would look back and laugh at the poor wildlife trudging through the snow in their business suits, hoping to still look vaguely respectable after their commute. Alas, I am just like them. Like the Iditerod, there is a pride in just finishing your commute on days like today.

Dateline: Tuesday. There is less snow but even more water. I did not know that ponds ecosystems could form at intersections in New York, complete with plankton, waterfowl and old men with fishing poles. And there are a lot of intersections in New York. It keeps melting through the day. Incredibly, by my commute home, life is mostly back to normal and water has evaporated to the point where you can safely navigate the streets. Where did it all go?

Mailing is a sign of love.

If you have received a card, package, or anything requiring a trip to the Post Office, you have no idea how much we love you. Really, love doesn't begin to cover it. You are adored. If you doubted our affection, for shame... this entry is proof. (For those of you who have not yet received a card or package from us, you are loved as well.)

Trips to the Post Office are mine-fields of the first order. It starts with volume. There are a lot of people here and they all love people elsewhere. This leads to a lot of mailing. If the U.S. Postal Service were to have enough offices, they would have to buy out all of the Starbucks locations and start turning them into branches. Skip that... even that wouldn't matter because I waited a half hour for my last cup of coffee. The lines branch out in many directions because there are lines for every aspect of your postal needs. The one to mail packages, one to pick up packages, one to ask questions, one to buy stamps, the list goes on and on. If you happen to get into the wrong line and only find out whey you get to the front, well, too bad for you. It's a long walk to the back of the correct line.

At our post office in Brooklyn, the employees are, what I like to call, "special." By special I mean, they have zero personal and customer service skills. Every time I get to talk to one of them, I make sure I am organized and have exact change ready. I also say a little prayer that I don't get Mr. Sarcastic. Like an evil tooth-fairy, his purpose is to bring pain and tribulation to your day.

Note: In the field of acting, we frequently use subtext to say a line but have the opposite meaning. Actors can very their tone of pitch, inflection of words and pace of speech to transform lines, entertain audiences, bringing joy and illuminating the human experience.

Now imagine if you will, a man who smiles at you and will hold the following conversation with you:

Customer: Hello, I'd like to get a book of stamps.
Mr. S: Alright, just one?
Customer: Yes, just one book, thank you.
Mr. S: That would be $6.77.
Customer: Here you go. And could you mail this letter?
Mr. S: Of course. Have a nice day.

Not too bad, right? I'm going to now add commentary to the dialogue outlining the subtext in this brief motivation. Please keep in mind that Mr. Sarcastic is smiling and friendly LOOKING:

Customer: Hello, I'd like to get a book of stamps. [Hello, I'd like to get a book of stamps.]
Mr. Sarcastic: Alright [this is a huge inconvenience for me, Idiot], just one [you cheapskate]?
Customer: Yes, just one book, thank you. [What the heck? I just asked for a book of stamps?]
Mr. Sarcastic: That would be $6.77 [and I hope you die in a horrible car crash].
Customer: Here you go. [What did I do to deserve this tone of voice? I'm baffled] And could you mail this letter? [Please, don't be mean to me... I fear you so much already.]
Mr. Sarcastic: Of course [you could give me a tip or something]. Have a nice day [nice= getting cancer].

Some random thoughts and my new dog.

It was almost eleven at night and Kitty looked out the window and said, "Oh my God, the city is gone!" Sure enough, our building was surrounded by the thickest fog I've ever seen and the entire skyline of New York was gone from sight. It was so dense that you could barely see the next building over. Since I'm not sure who is responsible for this disappearing act, I'd like to salute both God and David Copperfield. This morning, the fog was gone and it is clear and bright and you can see all the way to Jersey.

While we were in Boston last weekend, Kitty and I got a dog named Rex. She's a brown boxer with a small black patch on her chest. Very cute pooch. Of course, I'm the idiot who named a girl Rex. Right now she can sit and stay, but that's about it. Obience school is a little to pricey, so it looks like it is up to me. Kitty rolls her eyes as I tell it to sit, roll over, play dead. She doesn't seem to understand that it takes time to teach a dog to do tricks. She's probably rolling her eyes because she has never seen anyone yelling into a Nintendo system. Sorry to disappoint, I have invested in a copy of Nintendogs, a charming dog simulator. (www.nintendogs.com) The extent of my dog walking is tapping on the touch-screen of the game and curbing my dog is remarkably easy.

This is a remarkbly subtle segue into another observation about New York City, not a mea culpa to my love of video games. The fact is, there are about a billion dogs in New York City. On a beautiful morning like this (aha! This all ties together-- sort of), if you take a walk to the open fields of Prospect Park in Brooklyn or Central Park in Manhattan, you will see the Puppy Coffee Klatch. People young and old get their dogs out of their cramped apartments, drink coffee and let the dogs run around and play with each other. Kitty and I have seen this first hand during our warm-weather runs. The surprising thing is that most of these dogs are big. I don't know how one could live in a City-sized apartment and enjoy oneself with an uncommunicative roommate the size of a shetland pony walking around and bumping into the coffee table. Also, where is the SPCSA during all this? They don't mind throwing paint on people wearing fur, but they'll allow a St. Bernard to live in a studio apartment with a family of four. Which is worse? Seems to me the St. Bernard has got ongoing psychological abuse. The mink only died once, right? I kid- of course.

Ambulation, Part Two

On Friday, I had the pleasure of seeing my sashaying friend as I walked up Second Avenue. As I was heading uptown and arrived at 57th Street I saw her waiting for the light directly across the street. I have a terrible memory for faces and there is no way I could pick her out of a crowd, except for the fact that as she stood at the intersection across the street from me, she was singing to the music and getting her groove on. This was no gentle sway back and forth, rather I think I saw a step-ball-change thrown into the routine. As the light turned to "walk," she did a small hop-step and then started up her skip across the road.

The other people on the street, myself included, all managed to keep our poker faces as we walked by her. As I looked around, there was not one frown as people got out of her line of sight, only smiles and nods. I myself did a flap-flap-step- ball-change and shuffled off to the office.

You CANNOT try my new Gameboy.

Facing the skyline of New York and enjoying the light of sunrise as it envelopes the Empire State Building, I am reminded of one great and universal truth...

"You would not be crying if you did not put your fingers up your butt."

Sorry about that, I just got interrupted and noise is an everpresent phenomenon in the city. There is the background noise of the subway, the roar of the bus, people speaking in many languages and neighbors yelling. In this case, our neighbors, a couple with a problem grandchild, have hit the proverbial ball out of the park. Yes, I heard Grandma yelling that through our rather thick walls. What can I say when I see them in the hallway now? Grandpa yells about the vagaries of respect and elders. Grandkid yells that he hates them and he can't stand it here.

That afternoon you see your neighbors in the elevator. You talk about the weather. You mention the parking woes of the day. Worse yet, Grandkid is there and he asks me about my new Gameboy that he sees as I try to hide it as quickly as possible. Stay calm, stay focused, don't offer to let him try it...

There is an unwritten, unspoken rule in the city: With people living so close, eating so close in restaurants and generally "up in each others business" at all times, you do not comment, judge or ask too many questions. In restaurants, tables are frequently within a foot of each other. Conversations are brutally apparent. At the next table over, a couple may be talking about their dating life/crazy friends/canabalistic tendencies, but you do not look over, raise your eyebrow or comment in any way. Rather, you make a mental note of their conversations, continue with yours and then discuss and laugh when you are safely at home and... no one can hear you?

Tiptoe through the Tulips

As I walked to work the other day, I was walking up Second Avenue when I saw a heavy-set woman moving towards me. She had an I-pod and was skipping downtown. She was in her late fifties and was wearing sneakers and she was singing to herself and as she skipped, her arms swung wildly in time.

It is also surprising to see runners as they move down the sidewalk in some of the most non-residential parts of the city. The streets are incredibly crowded and they dodge through the people, run red lights and keep their heart rate in the cardio-vascular zone.

I suppose people can ambulate about the city as they please. I find myself taking the stairs, two at a time, up from the subway to the street in the mornings. If you take the E/V to the 53rd Street station, you will realize how hard this is. I am sure that I get strange looks from the riders on the escalators who are to my right. I zip past them and when I get to the top, I try to pretend that I'm not out of breath.

NYC: tranforming you into something cinematic.

I am not a particularly cool person. I play video games, wear comic book t-shirts and just last weekend I spent two hours watching a movie called, "Jesus Christ: Vampire Hunter." While I am not particularly well-dressed, well-groomed and well-bred, I am occasionally reminded that living in this city can make you significantly cooler than the sum of your parts.

Case in point, on a grey morning as you walk to work, you can step off a sidewalk and walk through a blast of steam coming up from the subway. It twists around you and as you step out of that small cloud of white, surrounded by people walking perpendicular to you, that invisible movie camera zooms in towards you, time and fog slow down and you feel like you are in a John Woo film, about to face a million bad guys as an undercover cop.

Another example, you walk across Washington Square Park. The sun is shining and as you walk towards the camera, you can feel a flock of pidgeons behind you take flight into a blue sky dotted with high clouds. You walk forward and the camera circles around behind you. It sees you as you walk towards a beautiful woman with curly hair and you walk up to her and take her in your arms and give her a passionate kiss for the whole park to see... Is it a scene from the latest romantic comedy or is it daily life in the city?

=========================================================

I am a fairly cool guy. I have an interesting career, I occasionally wear frappachino glasses and I can relate well to many different types of people. While I have an attractive wife, friends from all walks of life and I write a blog, I am occasasionally reminded that living in the city can make you significantly lamer than the sum of your parts.

Case in point: You are walking up the stairs from the subway. It is a gray rainy morning. You are wearing a pretty cool black jacket, nice slacks and a matching belt and shoes. As you take the last step up, a huge gust of wind blows up. You see four people walking towards you and the gust of wind pops each of their umbrellas out like kids popping the tops off of dandelions. The gust of wind carries a wall of water that drenches your pants through. By the time you get to the office, you look like you have walked through a typhoon, with leaves stuck in your hair, pants two shades darker from the water and socks that won't dry out until lunch. The camera zooms in on the pathetic temp worker arriving for another miserable day of work.

Another example, over the course of your first two weeks, you receive three parking violations for some damned thing or another and you curse your luck as you enter an intersection on a yellow light and there is a flash of light behind you... you just scored ticket number four. You are sitting on the subway, enthralled in your book and as you get up to leave, you realize that the person who you thought was coughing a little bit was an ancient woman with a cane and four bags of groceries who just stood for the last four stops because you didn't get up and give up your seat (as you normally would). The camera follows you out of the subway door, only to turn around and show the disgusted faces of your fellow commuters. You try to walk out with some sense of pride but you can't help feeling like a total jackass.

7.9 miles, 20 thousand steps, borders broken and home found.

(ed.- I started writing this on January 1st, 2006. I finally finished writing it today.)
My wife, Kitty, asked for a pedometer for Christmas. Today was her first day using it. And what a day it was. Christmas proper was spent in Rochester, visiting my family and friends. It was a whirlwind trip. The weeks leading up to Christmas were packed with gigs, rehearsal, travel and more gigs. We missed the sights and sounds of NYC at Christmas time and now was our chance to appreciate them.

Our day didn't begin as an attempt to catch the Christmas spirit. Rather, it began with the search for the cheapest haircut in New York.

It Takes a Village...

to score the cheapest and best haircut in New York City.

My previous haircuts have been a real mixed bag. The first was good. I went to a local salon in Brooklyn. DeeDee cut my hair and she seemed a little intimidated by the weird white guy coming in to get a trim. She was probably about as intimidated as I was. It turned out well, but on my second trip, I got her assistant. If I had not helped him out, I would have looked like the youngest, thinnest Stooge of the bunch. It was a truly appalling cut and I called Kitty, who was out of town, to lament the loss. Let's just say that if it had been a bris, I probably would lost the ability to procreate. (non-Hebrews should google the word “bris”)

Here we are in the East Village, this morning. I walk past a hip (and very empty) salon and turn into a training school for barbers. Barber Juan doesn't really speak English, but his teacher does. I feel the pressure rise, as I try to explain my current “look” and the way I'd like my hair cut. I can see Kitty in the mirror as I try to explain. She's trying to look as positive as possible. “You can do it!” her smile seems to say as she nods along with my description.

The teacher looks at the back of my hairline. “You've got little pony-tail... You want to keep?” No, it's just the way my hair grows, I hate that little thing... cut it off. He goes to work and shows his student how to carefully remove the repugnant growth of hair from the nape of my neck.

About forty minutes later, three conversations with teacher, translator, barber (-in-training) and Kitty, the cut is finished. Voila! It's great and one of the best in the recent past. Cost? $5 (plus $2 tip). It's unbelievable and I'm sure I'll never get the same cut again.

The Hike Begins...

Step 4,000. Our next stop is two storefronts north of the barber school, a place called the East Village Cheese Shop. Or, heaven, as I like to think of it. The cheese is inexpensive but it feels like a premium cheese shop. We kept our purchases light, knowing that this would be a long day of walking. A small package of low-fat havarti and a roll of fresh goat's cheese.

Kitty and I now are on a mission. We start roaming down St. Mark's and stop in at a comic book store (for me) and some fun boutiques (for her). We find some incredible menus at the restaurants around there, but our lunch has been packed and there are too many to make a choice. We make mental notes of names and locations and swear that we will go back some day.

After a quick break from lunch we decide to explore neighborhoods that we have not gone to before. Since we have arrived, we have spent a great deal of time in Chinatown, the Village and Chelsea. Yes, we have made the occasional trip elsewhere, but we have primarily foraged in these three areas. Today is our day to break down those borders, one step at a time.

The Best Electronics Store in the City?

Step 7000. We have walked uptown to B&H Electronics. Our excuse is that we are looking at digital cameras. Honestly, we heard that it was a neat experience. I've read a lot lately on the Internet about the death of the intelligent, computer/electronics salesman. These days, when you walk into an electronics “Superstore,” you find high school kids who don't really care, middle-aged men who try to sell you up to something you don't need, or worse. Gone are the days of people who actually know what the hell they are talking about.

B&H was a far different experience. Here are some observations: The store store was packed with customers and you checked all bags when you arrived. Salesmen helped you find the exact item you want. The items were placed in small bins that traveled via an elevated conveyor belt to the front of the store. You paid your bill, went to the pick-up counter, got your items and then got your other bags and left the store. I have no idea how anyone could shoplift. Yes, it was a lot of layers to buy an item, but considering the cost of the items, it seemed perfectly logical to try to protect themselves. Also, the salesmen were entirely men and most were Hassidic Jews. The only women we saw at the store were serving free soda and pretzels. All over the store there were small bowls of fruit candy for the customers. The salespeople who helped us were incredibly helpful, well-informed, and made us feel very comfortable with any purchases we might have. I got the general impression that they did this for a living and they really enjoyed their job. Moreover, they were a pleasure to speak to. Though we didn't make any purchases, Kitty and I agreed that we would be back to make any purchases after figuring out exactly what we need and want. We both could have purchased several items after the salesmen took so much time with us.

Foreign Friends

Step 10,000. I find myself thankful that I have friends from foreign lands. In this case, we are grateful that one of my best friends married a woman from Korea. He had told us to check out a small row of shops on 32^nd Street between 6^th and 7^th Avenues. It was as if we had entered another country for that one block. Every store sign was in Korean and every employee spoke English as their second language. We walked by some incredible looking restaurants. In the end, we found a small 24-hour deli called, Woorijip. It had dirt cheap food and Kitty and I shared a small plate of Kim-chee pancakes. Though we would have browsed, we might never have taken the time to stop in if it weren't for our friends.

Christmas comes but once a year, so make it last!

Step 14,000. One would think that after Christmas, the celebration would start to taper off. No, the city basks in the afterglow of the holiday season, making efforts to liberate dollars from the tourists that hold them hostage. Case in point, the tremendously complicated window displays at Macy's.

It is a short walk from Woorijip to Macy's but as we neared the intersection of Sixth Avenue and Broadway, the crowds became a challenge. Yes, we were taking steps, but when they are slow steps, do they still count?

All of the Christmas lights were still on. It was becoming a gorgeous night. As we forced our way up to the window displays, we could look up and see the Empire State Building directly above us. For those of you who are reading this with your maps by your side, you will realize how far we have walked today. Upon reaching the displays, I was surprised to still be enchanted by something so simple. I have a high school friend, Roboguy, who now builds and designs very complex robots. I think he might have been impressed by the intricacy of these giant books that sat in the window and then opened up to reveal a scene of New York City at the holidays, all choreographed to some nice, jingle-belly music. We watched each little show and though the crowds were still terrible, Kitty and I agreed that kids in New York should see that yearly. It's a lovely (and inexpensive) way to celebrate the season.

It is Beer Thirty.

Step 16,000. We need a rest. This has been a long walk and I find myself in one of those rare moods where I have an opinion. Yes, humble reader, I don't like to make decisions. Not big decisions, mind you, but the little ones. Where to eat for dinner? Eh, I could have anything. What movie to see? I'd see King Kong or Brokeback Mountain. Both sound good. In the rare instance that I really want to do something, I just speak up and I usually get my way.

Kitty was happily shocked when I said that it was still happy hour at our favorite tavern in the Village. This time, though, we hopped on the subway to get downtown. I know that I've mentioned that Kitty can find a deal anywhere? Imagine a fun, college bar that serves $1-Sam Adams from 3 pm to 7 pm during the week. Usually, it is still quiet during those hours and you can still talk without needing vocal therapy the next day.

Home at Last

Approximately 20,000 steps later, we arrived back at home. Was it a good day? You betcha.