Winter in Battery Park City, New York

Down in Battery Park City, as in much of downtown Manhattan, the wind is on steroids. Strong, and stoked by tall buildings and narrow streets, the winter wind saves its best work for west of the big highway where the Hudson River adds its two bucks.
On any given day, the air feels at least ten degrees colder in Battery Park City, especially in seasons where you need every degree on the your side of the tote board.
The wind whistles through spaces in the windows of our 18th floor apartment; it pounds on our walls and makes us huddle close to the space heater and under a comforter on the couch.
This brutality is payment for the beautiful summers down here when Battery Park City is spared the sweltering stench of the rest of Manhattan, where the same tall buildings create oven walls to contain the heat.
The Hudson River relents, and the mad, mad space makes you close your eyes and spin around without knocking anyone over. Among the joys of summer: The Esplanade, Rockefeller Park, and the North Cove where the yachts are moored, the World Financial Center Plaza where PJ Clarke's and South West have hundreds of outside tables, the fountains, and the places where you can just sit outside, undisturbed.
I count the days until March when I get my annual reminder that March is still a winter month. Okay, I'll count til April then, which for some is the "cruelest month," but not for me!

Travel 2009: A Year for the Home Fires

Tonight, people will say goodbye to 2009. Don't let the door hit you in the ass.
A tough year in many respects, 2009 was a year to stay relatively close to home. Many of us, despite the wanderlust in our hearts, did just that.
The stay-cation became an accepted norm. In New York, the stay-cation is no raw deal. People pay good money to get here; we don't have to sink the airfare or hotel cost to see a Broadway show or visit the Met.
In more certain times, we take one big trip out of the country and several domestic trips every year. But we only left the borders of the city a couple of times, though we did reach the left coast once.
The moment my job was assured, we spent a week in California, driving down Highway 101 and spending some time in both endcaps, San Francisco and Los Angeles.
In August, we went to Milwaukee for a week, since we skipped it in 2008 in favor of Austin. Milwaukee is my adopted hometown and 2009 was a year for going home.
Not everyone confined themselves to the continental US. Good friends went to Turkey and Greece, another just headed to India.
Where, if anywhere, did you go in 2009?

Times Square Subway Art

As New York City prepares for the ball-drop madness that is a Times Square New Year's Eve, I recall walking through the empty 1, 2, 3 train corridor in the near silence of a Saturday morning earlier this month.
Forget about tomorrow's crowd. With just the normal weekday throng of commuters hustling through the station, you can easily miss the art embedded in the station's walls.
I noticed the lit, metal-framed images one quiet Saturday morning, pre-coffee, on my way to a class. Get up close and you'll see the ceramic glazed iconic images that draw a parallel of New York revelry to Paris in the 1890s. The color and the party themes remind me of the surreal debauchery of the movie Moulin Rouge!
The artist is Toby Buonaguiro and you can check out all 35 of the ceramic New York images.
The New York City subway system is filled with art. You just need to take the time to notice it.

It's Christmas Eve in the City

Well, ring-a-ling, it's Christmas Eve again.
Spend Christmas in New York, that magical city, with millions of others.
There's so much to see and so many ways to spend your money. And so darn many people.
To feel the real deal, spend a few minutes on the corner of 34th Street and 7th Avenue. The bells of the Salvation Army Santas ring louder than the sirens of impatient emergency vehicle. But we're all impatient, aren't we?
Try crossing that crowded intersection, especially from the northeast corner to the northwest corner. The people move in a lattice pattern with an enforced speed limit of a zombie-walk. But there are no rules of the road here in the wild, wild northeast; no alternate merge. The aggressive ones overpower the weak and the out-of-towners. Here, the best defense is a double-wide stroller.
What's not to love? Merry Christmas, everyone!
Get home safe, or at least in one piece.

Eggs Benedict: What do the Birthers Believe?

I stand corrected.
I have always believed Eggs Benedict, America's ubiquitous brunch dish, was invented at Brennan's, the famous New Orleans restaurant. I ate the best Eggs Benedict of my life there--two poached eggs as spherical as globes, the lava of its yellow yolks popping out and running thickly down the mountain sides, captured by the craters of its muffin base.
The meal was a beautiful, three-course breakfast accompanied by champagne, lots of champagne. Indeed, the best breakfast of my life.
The question of the dish's invention came up while G and I were scarfing yet another variation of standard Bennies at our local deli--salmon instead of Canadian Bacon and inventively, a potato pancake instead of the muffin. I stood by my belief in Brennan's but G was sure the dish was invented right here in New York.
Word around the internet is, that Eggs Benedict was birthed either at Delmonico's in New York's Financial District or the Waldorf-Astoria uptown. Delmonico's claim of credit for the invention of many dishes raises my suspicion (the hamburger? really?).
Even Brennan's own website does not take credit for the Sunday brunch staple. Their menu calls Eggs Benedict a"traditional dish", but does take credit for Eggs Hussarde.
The description from Brennan's online menu:

EGGS HUSSARDE
(A Brennan's Original)
One of the dishes that put
"Breakfast at Brennan's" on
the map. Poached eggs atop
Holland rusks, Canadian bacon
and Marchand de Vin sauce.
Topped with Hollandaise sauce.
Suggested Wine - Sauvignon Blanc

Surfing around Brennan's website, I realize what I really ate that day was their Eggs Ellen, a bennie variation with salmon.

San Francisco: Mexican Food

We want Mexican food tonight. Friends from California say that California has the best Mexican food. They go as far as saying New York has no decent Mexican food at all, at the low end. They will concede that California can’t do pizza like New York.

Our hotel concierge enthusiastically recommends Maya on 2^nd and Folsom. Set back from the street in an office building plaza, I think the bar and restaurant is probably hopping during the week. But it is quiet on this Sunday night, with only four or five tables seated in the large main room. Only one person works the front of the house.

I order a pomegranate Margarita on the rocks. Our guacamole and chips arrive in a two-tier silver serving tray. Gene and I each have a lobster taco appetizer—it sounds too good to share. I order a half-portion shrimp enchilada as a main course. I wish more restaurants offered small and large portions so I can try more dishes (without sharing).

Gene and I want to stop in a bar for a nightcap after the taxi drops us back in our Financial District/North Beach neighborhood. Last night, we could only find bars, no open restaurants. Tonight, we can only find restaurants and no bars. Not exactly no bars, we poke our heads into several. The classic Vesuvio Café has no bar to speak of—only tables. We feel like chatting with locals or the bartender. Each bar we look in has either too many people or too few. Coppola’s place locks their doors by 9:30 pm. The problem must be us; we are not in the right mood.

We walk back to the hotel to have our nightcap there. Hotel bars are always perfect—always seats available, but never deserted. And San Francisco Hilton bar carries Absolut Ruby Red.

We will pick up our rental car early tomorrow to start down Highway 1. Thirty-six hours in San Francisco is not enough.

The Moth: Stories of Danger

The Moth's first 2009 mainstage event, showcased five captivating "Stories of Danger" told by people from across the spectrum of storytelling experience. I missed regular host Andy Borowitz; first-time host Tom Shillue is not nearly as funny.

Of the five storytellers, two stood out in my mind:

Wesley Autrey

This New York subway hero saved a convulsing man's life by lying on top of him between subway rails while a 1 train passed overhead. One-half inch of clearance hung between Autrey's scalp and the underbelly of the train.
Autrey's tale resonated with New Yorkers when it happened last January. Later, Autrey's notoriety became nationwide through appearances on David Letterman and Ellen. George Bush gave Autrey a shout-out at the State of the Union address.
None of his television appearances beats hearing him tell the harrowing story in his own words. Jumping off the subway platform, Autrey told himself, "fool, you can do it!"
A mantra for the new age if I ever heard one.

Mike Destefano

Destefano turns tragedy into comedy with a tale about how much one man can take. As a young man, he dealt with his father's death from brain cancer on the heels of his wife's slow death from AIDS. A strange coincidence (or not) and a brush with Buddhism bring the Bronx Catholic back from the brink of suicide.

The other three storytellers were writer Amy Cohen, Sudanese activist John Dau and The Moth founder, George Dawes Green.

The Players

Stepping into The Moth's home, The Players in Gramercy Park, is like stepping into the 19th century. The walls of the upstairs library are lined with volumes of mostly old and some new play collections and theater criticism. Guests are free to handle the books, but I couldn't shake the feeling that I shouldn't touch.
However, The Moth has outgrown its sentimental home and would best serve its fans by moving to a larger home base. Until then, The Moth should stop overselling tickets.
People crammed into the back half of the theater last night; employees shoved another row of chairs behind the last row, resulting in an unbearably crowded room . Two-thirds of the people could exit only by climbing over the makeshift row of chairs. Where were the fire marshalls?
The Moth is trying to preserve its $20 ticket price, but I their mainstage events are undervalued at that price. An ticket price increase, coupled with a cap on the audience size, would create a better experience for its patrons.

The Palm's Carrot Cake, A Love Triangle

I live by my diet rules--rules give me willpower.
One year, I made a No Chocolate rule. No chocolate means that my favorite desserts: carrot cake, cheesecake and Key Lime Pie, ducked the ban. 2008, a more stringent rule-year, saw the ban of all desserts. Only a few exceptions were made:

• My birthday (Cheesecake Factory cheesecake)
  
• G's birthday (Magnolia Bakery Red Velvet cake)
  
• Thanksgiving (Doug Jahnke pumpkin pie)
  
• G and my tenth wedding anniversary last night (The Palm carrot cake)
  

Sticklers might say last night fell in 2009. Yes, but G and I begin our new year every year on the Monday after January 1. This calendar adjustment allows us a no-guilt anniversary celebration.
During the 2007 holiday season, a group of co-workers celebrated at the midtown Palm Steakhouse. After we couldn't eat another bite, the waiter lowered an eight-or-so-layer, eight-or-so inch high wedge of carrot cake onto the table. I swear the cake was as wide as it was tall. Some magical extra room for dessert appeared as soon as the cake hit the table.
During this year of No Sweets, I thought about The Palm's carrot cake. I described it to strangers every now and then.
Last night, G and I celebrated our anniversary at The Palm's new location in Tribeca. After lobster bisque, crab cocktail, a 14-0z filet mignon (G) and Alaskan King Crab legs (me), I found room for the carrot cake. (I knew I would.)
As reviewers traditionally say, it did not disappoint. Massive, with cream cheese icing marbling every bite, the cake arrived with a steak knife jammed in the center. Probably representing the time it will take off our lives.
Ahh, but it was sweet. Now 2009 may begin.

Good Samaritans Need Not Apply

Here's a Christmas story for you: the California Supreme Court in a boneheaded decision, ruled that a woman who became a paraplegic after a car accident could sue the friend who pulled her out of the car.

That is, Good Samaritan protection laws don't apply here because the assistance attempted was not medical assistance. The assistance may or may not have worsened the victim's injuries; the courts will determine that later.

Wouldn't you think a helper would be more liable attempting medical assistance than say, offering a blanket? Will the possibility of being sued make someone less apt to help a lost child in a mall, for example? That's not medical care. How many people will be injured or die because a potential Good Samaritan must weigh the risk of getting sued before offering a helping hand?

Remember the New Yorker who jumped off the subway platform to help a man who fell off the platform as he went into a seizure? With a train approaching, the hero pulled the man between the rails and covered his convulsing body with his own. Lying still between the tracks, both men escaped injury. But odds were against that happy ending.

I can see how someone trying to help might cause harm, but the law needs to protect people acting in good faith. This California ruling could potentially affect how people view their fellow man. Is a lawsuit as good as a winning lottery ticket? Is everyone looking for chance to win, including that bleeding woman on the side of the road?

The injured woman didn't care that the person who came to her rescue is a friend? Excuse me, was a friend. Who needs friends when millions of dollars are at stake?

Because it is Christmas, I choose to believe that people will aid someone in distress despite the backward effort of the California Supreme Court. But ask me again in January.

The Strain of New York City Cranes

It's not unusual for New Yorkers to keep a narrow focus when moving around the city.

But since the recent deadly crane collapses in the city, I woke up and started counting the number of construction cranes I see daily.

G and I have been surrounded by construction for years. When we lived in Brooklyn, we watched the Brooklyn Law School dormitory go up a few feet behind us, stopping just short of blocking our Verrazano Bridge view from our 11th floor apartment. (Residents on lower floors weren't so lucky.)

An apartment building rose across the street and another one was built on the next block, on the corner of Atlantic and Court. A new courthouse three blocks away and a number of other projects surrounded us. Just as construction was wrapping up, we sold our apartment.

Fast forward to Battery Park City and watch the amount of construction increase exponentially. The towering monstrosity going up on the other side of the World Financial Center was the site of two accidents. A white dinosaur of a crane sticks far out of the big hole in the ground that was the World Trade Center. I walk by a half-built building and its crane companion, rising taller every day behind the Marriott Hotel.

Yesterday, a new ferry terminal floated into place on Vesey Street and now there is a tall crane lodged in the view from my living room window.

Suddenly I notice the cranes, more and more, taller and taller. Have they been there all along?

Sex and My City

How many Cosmopolitans will be drunk around the nation tonight?

I left work at 1 pm today, a summer Friday, to see "Sex and the City" on its opening day. I never see movies on opening day, or opening weekend, or rarely in the theater at all. For G and me, it's Netflix or nothing.

Exceptions: we saw 1998's "Man on the Moon" opening weekend. And I saw 1990's "Godfather III" on opening night. Burned by GFIII, I never again assumed I need to rush to see a movie because I loved its predecessor.

I rarely watched "Sex and the City" during its small screen run. I liked the show when I came across it, but not enough to remember when it was on. But I was a loyal reader of Candace Bushnell's column in The Observer when I first moved to New York.

The Price of Over-Hype

I saw "Sex and the City," without reading any reviews in advance, but knowing the reviews are mixed. Like many, I went with a girl-group but I skipped the post-movie Cosmos.

The movie was not nearly as bad as the New York Times says, nor as great as the Fox News reviewer thinks. (But remember, Fox can make the Iraq war sound good.)

The movie did not make me sentimental for Carrie and gang; it made me sentimental for New York. Or specifically, how New York felt when I first got here in 1992. Every location in the movie was dizzyingly fantastic. I'm certain I ate in every blurred restaurant they showed, walked on every one of the streets. And what could be better than reuniting on The Brooklyn Bridge, running toward each other, one from each side?

When I first moved to New York, I couldn't say a bad word about it for years. In the movie, Samantha longs to return to New York. Her LA is all about sitting on deck chairs. Miranda flees Brooklyn, for Manhattan. Jennifer Hudson, as Carrie's personal assistant, says she came to New York for Love. To find it, that is. Hudson has all the sparkle of the new New Yorker.

I wish I could get some of that sparkle back. But I felt it, in the theater this afternoon.

Make the Most of Happy Hour

How do people with normal salaries manage to enjoy any of New York's costly charms? Simple charms, like paying your rent and eating.

Sunday's New York Times article, Starting Salaries, but New York Tastes, brings back memories for me that ain't so far behind. The article refers to the "young newcomers to the city of a certain income — that is, those who are neither investment bankers nor being floated by their parents."

That describes me and everyone in my circle of friends when I arrived in late 1992.

I was so naive about the cost of living in New York, I thought I could share a two-bedroom apartment for $500 a month. I quickly upped my price to $650 and two roommates. I got an overdraft line of credit on my checking account. I dipped into it and paid it back every pay cycle.

Here are some other tactics either I or one of my friends resorted to:

• Bringing a flask of vodka to bars (Alexi swill vodka, no less)
  

• Seeking out Happy Hours with free food (a nod to the former Grappino's on 39th Street)

• Giving up blondeness (that wasn't me)

• Joining a group for drinks after they've gone to dinner

• Attending art openings for the free wine

• Putting hot baked potatoes in my pockets to keep my hands warm on the way to school (Wait, I'm misremembering. That was Francie in A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.)

The scraping-by syndrome can last much longer than a couple of years out of college, even among professionals who get promotions and raises. People rely on business dinners to experience great New York restaurants for much of their careers. And for some musicians, actors and writers, scraping by is forever.

No Loss: The Moth Storytelling Series

The Moth storytellers told "Stories of Loss" at the New York Public Library last night. Sounds like a downer, but not so.

The first storyteller, Jeffrey Rudell, talked about being the first contestant kicked off a reality series. But his story really was about overcoming his lifelong fear of feeling dumb.

Josh Swiller told a story about randomness of tragedy. His message was about not feeling sorry for yourself. Halfway into the story, Swiller told the audience he is deaf.

The third story was hysterically funny about Ophira Eisenberg letting go of her ex-boyfriend by way of a Haitian Witch spell.

At intermission, I called a dogwalker, so I could stay for the second half.

Bliss Broyard then told how she discovered her father's secret when he died and how she finally accepted that her family would always live with the secrecy.

Melissa Banks, author of The Girls Guide to Hunting and Fishing, told how she would never feel invincible again after being hit by a car while riding a bike home from cancer radiation treatment.

The Moth is a non-profit organization created by George Dawes Green who missed his front-porch storytelling evenings in the South. He resurrected the tradition in New York City in 1997. The mainstage Moth events are held monthly. The organization holds more frequent "slams" open to a wider range of storytellers. Check out their website for event listings. Or you can buy one of the many CD collections offered on their site.

Let's Put a Few Horses Out of Work

How many marriage proposals do you suppose have been made while riding through Central Park in a horse-drawn carriage? Its so romantic and reminiscent of a bygone era.

But these carriages are dangerous and should be a bygone practice. New York City streets are not a safe place for the animals.

Last week, a carriage horse was tragically killed. A pedestrian beating a drum startled the horse. The horse ran up on the sidewalk and the carriage he was pulling got stuck between two poles. He died trying to pull the carriage through. A second horse ran into the street and landed on a car.

The graphic New York Times photo accompanying the story is wrenching.

Want a romantic ride in the open air? Give a pedicab some business.

And sign the petition to ban horse-drawn carriages in New York City.

New York Times Cross Words

The New York Times abandons their "Times Select" pay-for-content feature at midnight tonight. News junkies will rejoice. But where will the crossword puzzlers stand?

Perusing numerous articles about decision, I did not read one mention of crossword puzzle charges, staying or going. Serious puzzlers will pay the charges of $39.95 per year, a recent increase from $34.95.

I have paid for the privilege of the daily crossword struggle myself from the day the feature first became available online. Yet, I could never justify paying for the Times Select articles, despite pulling up the Times online several times a day.

Theater 101: A Chorus Line

C., my colleague and source of theater info, said the current production of A Chorus Line is nearly identical to the original Broadway classic of the mid 1970s. C. viewed this as a minor negative; I didn't. Since I never saw the show before, my theater experience last night was a class in remedial theater.

My friend G. and I sat in the mezzanine, great seats for a full stage view. The set was simple, just a backdrop of floor-to-ceiling mirrors that pivoted around for a 360 view of the dance numbers. There was nothing else but a white line on the dance floor.

Three or four of the songs had permeated my brain sometime during the 80s and I got a little thrill when I recognized the first notes of a familiar tune. The show dragged for me only once when dancer Paul went on a bit too long with his childhood tale. Diana, my favorite cast member, was the smoothest dancer. She sang the vocal solo in What I did for Love.

Unfortunately, someone in my row kept coughing and worse, it was me. I tried hard to cough only during the applause, but I would feel the tickle in my throat rising every few minutes. I could stave off the cough for a bit with a sip of water, aware that I was capable of ruining the experience of the ardent woman next to me.

She softly tapped every beat on her thigh and mouthed every word of every song. She often led the applause and I wondered how many times she had seen the show.

Summer of Love at the Whitney

As the 40th anniversary of the 1967's Summer of Love comes to a close, so does the exhibit at the Whitney Museum, "Summer of Love: Art of the Psychedelic Era." Next weekend is the last chance to catch it; it folds up September 16.

On Saturday, a long line of people waited to buy tickets. (Buy 'em online, folks.) The crowd looked a little different than a typical New York museum crowd. The people younger than 30 wore funkier clothes, perhaps aspiring to the hippie spirit. Among the not-to-be-trusted crowd (over 30), I overheard parents telling their kids "this was my era". Real message: see, I once was cool.

H. and I had the advantage of our personal tour guide. G. knows everything about the era, about the history behind the underground publications, the story behind the album covers and the names of the bit players in the Warhol scene. G. pointed out the influential magazines Oz, IT and the East Village Other.

A wall of poster art for upcoming concerts mainly in San Francisco, London and New York featured the trendy but hard-to-read popular font and a slew of 60s bands. In the exhibit's corners there were light shows in darkened rooms that required a different state of mind to enjoy as they were meant to be enjoyed.

Rocking the Runway at Fashion Rocks

Fashion does indeed rock. From the sixth row of Radio City Music Hall last night, we enjoyed an evening of Old Rock meets New.

To kick off, Aerosmith burst out with "Walk This Way." Fergie joined Steven Tyler midsong, the first of four old dudes paired up with young stars.

Proving he is still a renegade, Tyler mixed and matched animal prints. Aerosmith followed up with "Dude Looks Like a Lady". How is it that their comeback hit is twenty years old, Gene leaned over and asked.

The show featured a lot of duets, but none surpassed the chemistry of Usher and Mary J. Blige. They stole the show with a James Brown/Aretha Franklin/Stevie Wonder medley, "It's a Man's World", "Respect" and "Do I Do". Mary J. Blige sure took care of MJB.

Jennifer Lopez made the most dramatic entrance and exit, descending from a silver capsule, singing her way down a red carpeted staircase, her back-up dancers dressed like paparazzi. But the performance was more flash than anything else.

Maroon 5 did a great rendition of "Be My Baby," hitting notes that Ronnie Spector can no longer hit.

Next up in the Old Dude/Young Chick category: Carrie Underwood and Lindsey Buckingham of Fleetwood Mac. Not sure many in the audience recognized this particular old dude. Lindsey and Stevie--I mean Carrie--sang "Go Your Own Way," not typically the mantra of a fashion crowd.

Jennifer Hudson and Aerosmith's Joe Perry performed "Come Together". Hudson was a bit disappointing because the song didn't seem like her type of song (or her type of dress, for that matter!)

The final Old/Young pairing: Carlos Santana and Alicia Keyes, performing the second Fleetwood Mac song of the night, "Black Magic Woman." Who knew that famous shoe designer also played guitar?

Like a Noodle in Crowded Cup

Riding the train from Baltimore to New York is miserable if its crowded as it often is on Sundays. I try hard to get a window seat so I can tune everyone else out. Last weekend, I ended up in the cafe car, a hit-or-miss proposition. This ride is a big miss; I just can't tune this one guy out.

Its like he just got released from a concentration camp, eating like a beast, pouring apple juice down his throat in fast gulps. First, he pours the juice from the bottle into a cup of ice then washes it down like its whiskey. Maybe it is.

The smell of beef makes me turn away, but he eats his sandwich fast in furious bites. He pulls out a quart of blueberry yogurt from his Au Bon Pain bag. I turn away. In seconds, I hear his spoon scraping the bottom of the empty plastic container.

He gets up and walks to the end of the cafe car. Those pants can't be his; they are several sizes too large. The excess fabric bunches at his waist. He paces to the other end of the car and returns with a coffee and a Cup O' Noodles.

Maybe he is cheating on a diet in the privacy of an Amtrak car, alone in the crowd. Maybe he figures yogurt and Cup O' Noodles are not that caloric. They are in those sizes, buddy. The "coffee" turns out to be hot water to bring the dried noodles to life. Eww, I can smell them.

He seems to have some attention deficit, pacing, eating re-situating his laptop. Now he's reading sheet music, muttering and waving his hand as the notes go through his head. I hate his caged animal energy and now that we've passed Trenton and passengers have departed, I wish he would move to one of the empty tables.

I would move myself, but I wedged my bag under the table and I'm worried I will struggle to spring the suitcase. But what goes in must come out, right? Including this guy's meal. Eww again.

Finish your Cup O Noodles already!

Bloomberg for President

Today's London Times suggests that New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg is considering an independent run for president on an anti-gun platform. The article suggests he could win if enough Democrats are unable to swallow Hillary and if enough Republications abort Rudy.

Is there really hope for an anti-gun candidate to beat the unbeatable and embarrassingly American gun lobby? For this reason alone, I can get behind Bloomberg for president. Bang, bang.

Your Bad Dream House

You've got a decent job and decent credit and you're looking for a one-bedroom apartment. You have a dog, need at least 750 square feet and you're willing to stretch to $500,000. You want to live in Manhattan, but would prefer to skip Harlem.

You go to the real estate leader, corcoran.com. How many places do you think you will be able to pick from? Just one.

Why are you scraping the bottom of the market, anyway? Spend $750,000 and you can live in a place only one half the size of your parents house, the one they bought for $60,000 in the Seventies.

You're "scraping" because if you secure a 6.5 per cent interest rate on a 30-year-fixed, put down 20 per cent (that's $100,000!) and find a low maintenance payment of $700 a month, you will cough up $3228 per month for that half a million dollar apartment.

Now let's talk about those poor souls with low-paying jobs and less than stellar credit. On the other hand, let's don't.

New Yorkers, Alone in the Bubble

According to an ABC News report, foreclosures hit record numbers in May, up 90 per cent over last May. The ABC report cites California, Colorado and Nevada as the states hardest hit.

The LA Times wasted no time jumping on the foreclosure bandwagon. Check out the LA Times feature that allows you to search from a pool of foreclosed properties.

Two years ago, real estate agents denied the housing bubble existed. One bubbly agent talked up interest-only loans when we said a particular property was out of our price range.

Only three months ago, after some predatory lenders already went bust, a Countrywide agent tried to push an interest-only loan on us, even after we said we wanted a 30-year fixed. The agent got angry and refused to quote us an interest rate.

But now, nationwide, the period of denial and mixed housing reports is over.

However, in New York City, we are still watching and waiting. There seems to be an endless pool of rich buyers willing to pay exorbitant prices for tiny, well-located spaces.

9:45 pm on the N/R platform

The subway platform at 9:45 pm on a Tuesday holds men in suits with loosened ties and red faces and mouths ajar. Older men, men who feel they deserve a few drinks after work, who deserve to feel the pressure off their shoulders for a few hours. Other men, black men dressed shabbier, pushing their belongings in carts, like the luggage that flight attendants pull through the airport.

The people waiting for their trains at 9:45 pm on Tuesdays mostly stayed too long at happy hour.

The subway platform comes to a point at the end of the 14th Street station. I always gravitate toward the end of the line, the last car. The N train pulls in and a noisy group pours out. I see a redhead with curly long hair wearing a deep purple sweater that would look so good on me.

The third express train thunders into the station without a local in sight. 9:50--it feels like its been so much longer.

Friday Casual: Men in Uniform

To the male office worker in the United States, "casual Friday" means khaki pants and a blue shirt. Walk by the NYC's World Financial Center around lunchtime on any weekday, but especially Fridays, you will see an astounding number of men in their khaki and blue uniforms. Near 100% conformity.

Sometime the khakis are stone-colored or more yellowy khaki. The blue shirts can range from deep french blue to sky blue, and maybe the shirt will have a thin white stripe. Do these guys even notice that they are in uniform? I bet not.

Let's don't discuss the pleats.

Kids in Konfined Spaces

I don't find kids annoying when they are in places that are meant for kids, like playgrounds and ballfields. They annoy me when they are in confined spaces, like subways and grocery stores.

This morning, I luck out with two sets of kids in my subway car, moderately unusual during the New York morning commute. Across from me, one sits quietly on his mother's lap. But two tots at the end of the car talk in high-pitched squeaky voices, not misbehaving or sassy, but its impossible to tune them out.

The entire population of the subway car gets off at Chambers Street and a complete new set gets on. Just interchangeable people changing places.

Oh good, now a kid in a yellow rain slicker and a matching wide-brim yellow rain hat. Do his parents think they spawned Christopher Robin?

Keep Your Eyes on Your Own Paper

The owner of the paper or magazine is in the superior position, and this woman has a superior look on her face. She knows the lesser one is reading The Post over her shoulder. She does not acknowledge the lesser reader. If she is kind, she may stay on the page a second or two longer than she would have so her reader can finish.

No one thinks they participate in this game. I'm sure I've done it myself (subtly). It's easy to fall into: you're sitting close to someone reading something with big headlines, like The Post. A word or two of the screaming bad-pun headline hits the corner of your eye. You feel your head turn toward the paper. And there, you've done it. You're of of those.

A Sleepy Morning Commute

Lady in purple tennis shoes sits forward and tall in her seat, but her eyes are closed. Her tousled hairstyle makes her look like she just rolled out of bed. But the stiff spikes imply an intentional look.

I see a look of pain on a woman's face as she tries to stake out her space next to a big woman with a baby strapped to her like a papoose. The big woman isn't sitting fully in the seat yet she's still squishing the thin woman. The baby has old-man tired eyes.

I look up a moment later and both ladies are gone--replaced by another sleeping woman and a man with big plastic glasses reading important papers.

A blonde girl with a serene look is reading Atlas Shrugged. Looking down at the paperback, her eyes look closed, enhancing the sweet look. Two other girls on the train are disheveled brunettes. They pulled on their clothes quickly this morning, rushing to work, their disarray and unpreparedness apparent.

Another Way Home

I am happy leaving work almost on time on an unusually sunny afternoon.

I will be home in a half hour, so G. starts dinner. But at 23rd Street, the train stops in the station. Stops and stays. Debris on the tracks at Rector; this train is not going to South Ferry. You can transfer at Chambers, the conductor promises. But he can't say when we will be moving again. Sorry for the inconvenience, he says. But he doesn't sound sorry, he sounds annoyed.

I listen to my French for Beginners podcast and I am content for awhile.

A young man dressed in jeans and t-shirt is visible agitated, standing in the open doorway trying to make eye contact with the conductor. Stepping back into the car, pacing, stepping out again.

The car is almost empty now and I reluctantly get off the train in search of another way home.

Staring at Subway Shoes

The girl sitting across from me wears orange rainboots with tiny white dots. She is writing in a journal too. About me? Hardly. Not with that serious look on her face.

Often I look only at the shoes and pant legs of my fellow passengers. Round, black-suede toes curtained by cuffed, frayed jeans replace the orange rainboots. Could be male or female, but I sense female.

The best thing about the last car of the train is that people mostly get off, not on. By the time I'm near my stop, only one or two people remain on with me. I don't like being with just one other person. I feel more comfortable with two others, or no one at all.

Subway at Night

Its late, its quiet, and I sit alone on the subway platform bench. I wish for the bustle and quick arrival of the trains I hated this morning.

A woman with white shoes sits in the furthest seat from me on the same bench. I can't see any more than her shoe, her crossed leg moving up and down. I hear a wrapper crinkle. She must be sucking a hard candy.

Three trains come in rapid succession now: an uptown local across the tracks, an express zooming through the center track, a beeping local running fast, too fast, but I still think it will stop. The lady and I rise from the bench and walk quickly down the platform. The train's horn sounds like a laughs as it sails past.

Now I see the lady in the white shoes and she is surprisingly young.

Stinking Subway

I walk onto the subway platform. I have a choice of two benches, each seated with one person. The guy on the closest bench looks moderately normal. The further bench is much closer to where I need to get on the train, but holds a person of unknown caliber. He or she is sitting in an odd fashion, semi-curled. Bad sign; I don't want to take a chance. I sit on the first bench.

I notice a smell; it smells like . . . pee? Definitely pee. But mixed with something else. I recognize the smell of a farm, like cow manure mixed with hay, like the agricultural barns at the Wisconsin State Fair. I look on either side of me, there is no sign of the source.

A girl approaches and sits between me and the guy. There's still an empty seat on either side of her, it is still a safe choice. She looks like a normal college student. She and the guy seem oblivious to the pee/farm smell. It is so strong that I consider commenting on it to her. But I decide not to. Maybe she thinks its me.

The Subway Home

I stand zombie-like against the wall of the subway platform.

Ten feet away, the pay phone rings. I can't remember the last time I heard an un-ironic, old-fashioned phone ring. I can't remember the last time I saw anyone using a pay phone. I imagine myself walking over and picking up the yellow receiver. Hello? It will be a wrong number or a prank. I imagine answering it, but I know I won't; I'm not that curious.

My head has that spinning feeling from too much input over the day, too much stress, too much thought. I wonder if I should get up early tomorrow and use the elliptical machine we bought impulsively this weekend.

The train pulls in the station and I see coats mashed against the plexi. As the passengers file off, the train elevates with the lessened weight of each person emerging. Its like a clown car.
I am so tired, I feel like I'm having a nervous breakdown. Why can't I manage all my tasks? Why can't I prioritize? I need more energy.

Almost home, one more stop, and dreading the nine-minute walk from the station to home.

Another Rainy Day in New York City

The subway riders wear rainboots, plaid and plain--all have given in to the torrent. Streams of rain break the ancient seals of the subway roof.
We look like the wet rats who run free, the squatters in the subway, the real owners of these tunnels.
Umbrellas. The five-dollar ones drop to the subway floor; nicer brands dangle from wrists. The king of umbrellas, those unflappable, unfoldable ones are protected by one hand clasped over another and used as chin rests.
I see more rainboots across from me. This pair is royal blue with pink cherries and green cherries. I wonder why rainboots are all shinier and more childlike than everyday shoes?
Combat a dreary day with some bright boots.

Subway Breakfast

Eating in the New York subway is like eating in a dirty bathroom.

This morning I see a man eating like an absolute pig sitting across from me. Coffee held high in his left hand; pastry held high in his right. Each bite torn from the pastry sends boulders of crumbs rumbling down the mountain of his lap.

A crumbled brown bag sitting in his lap falls to the floor. Without a free hand, he leaves the bag lie and allows it to become trash. Occasionally, a big crumb or nut springs from his pastry with no obvious provocation, commiting a suicide jump of sorts.

Now the man is finished gorging and the crumpled bag, a coffee-stained napkin, and an overturned dribbling paper coffee cup lie around his feet like dead soldiers. He is oblivious to them.

He brushes crumbs from his windbreaker and lap, but misses a good many of them. A few crumbs cling for life in his bushy mustache, but they wonder if its worth the trouble and peacefully, resolutely, they let go.

A Whole Lotta Berries

Yesterday the Blackberry network went down for twelve hours and all the media featured stories on the outage. The media tried to illustrate that a lot of people are hooked on their devices. Charlie Gibson, ABC News anchor, felt compelled to declare his abstention and tease his colleague for his addiction. So what if people like to stay connected?
To me, the real issue that emerged: what is the plural of Blackberry the hand-held device? Is it the same as the plural of blackberry, the fruit? Have people never written about the Blackberry in the plural before? ABC News opted for "Blackberries" and the New York Times used "Blackberrys".
I agree with the Times. Blackberrys are not fruits.
If I had a Blackberry, I could have posted this sooner.