HipReplacement

One Car For One Person In NYC = Insanity

2011-06-16T07:06:00.000-07:00

I accept that we will not be able to change the topography, build more mass transit overnight. But there are way too many cars in NYC, and as logically put forth by many parties, there are layers upon layers of hidden costs when it comes to car. Oil pricing (price fixing and government subsidies, anyone?), car manufacturers (government bailouts and tax incentives for manufacturing them, to name just two), and of course pollution, accidents, accident and emergency car crews that are required to clean up the mess that they leave, etc.

Here is my modest proposal: What if weekdays from 8 am to 8 pm, every car that entered the city from any of the bridges or tunnels HAD to have 2 or more occupants. Single occupancy vehicles would have to pay a flat fee, say $10. Something cost prohibitive enough to get people over the "I tried car pooling, and it just didn't work out?" Once in the city, drivers would be free to dispense with passengers and drive as they like. Enforcing the additional payments and monitoring could be performed by those same nifty little cameras they use to send you tickets when you run a red light. Minimal additional infrastructure, huge decrease in the volume of weekday traffic in NYC.

What could possibly be so hard about that?

Morning Commute

2011-02-28T11:57:00.000-08:00

New York is expensive. It's constantly under threat of terrorist attack. And these days, it snows too much. But for those of us who don't have a dress code and a love for all things GoreTex, it's a bikers dream. Especially on days like today, even with a blustery headwind and a steady downpour. But for the exception of a solitary pedestrian, I have the Brooklyn Bridge all to myself. Beautiful.

Bicycle Crash as Metaphor

2008-09-29T10:40:00.001-07:00

Back on the Stick, Island Style

2008-06-26T20:31:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, it takes a moment of pause to get one's bearings.

Or, in my case, a dive head first into the azure blue Aegean Sea and temporary abandonment of my fiscal senses -- i.e., spending Euros like they are Dollars.

To read this blog it would seem that I only go fun places and see wonderful things. Sadly, this is not the case. My last post on this site is from right after my honeymoon nearly 2 years ago. Needless to say, so much has transpired since then that it will be nearly impossible to document it all. But I will try.

In the meantime, let me say just start by writing that the Greek Islands are about as close to heaven as I have come in this life. Allow me to share this little slice of heaven, the view from the patio here at the Hotel Cheladonia on the island of Santorini, or Thira as is known to the locals.

Buenos Aires es muy bueno!

2006-12-29T13:10:00.000-08:00

We went to Buenos Aires, Argentina for the honeymoon. Estamos enamorado de BA - que ciudad mangifica!

The following are my initial reactions, in no particular order. And by the way, we spent six wonderful nights at the Hotel Home and let me just say that it is absolutely the best -- great service, clean, well designed rooms, a pool out back and very reasonable rates, right in the heart of Palermo....it's where you want to be.

Such an eclectic blend of cultures, a sprawling, sputtering, spinning and dancing melange of classic European architecture, and all the black diesel dust belching pell mell roadways and bumper riding taxi cabs you expect of a third world country. Motorcycles, subcompacts, all whizzing past the totally modern and incredibly storied cobble stone streets of an elegant city with wide, wide boulevards. It has aristocracy and open air markets, cheap leather goods and cafes and the absolutely best steak I have ever eaten in my life. Long live Buenos Aires!

Once in a lifetime

2006-12-28T18:48:00.000-08:00

It's official! On Friday, December 8th, 2006, I wed the love of my life, Ms. Cornelia Henning, now Mrs. Cornelia Van Amburg. It's in the Times!

It was, I must confess, a hugely emotional experience. It was the most magical, wonderful night, to be surrounded by loved ones, and pledging those vows. Words cannot come close to describing the emotions that swept through me.

I sincerely hope everyone gets a chance to experience emotion as untrammeled and real at least once in his or her life.

I'm going to go cry now.

Brand D -- Everybody's Buying It!

2006-11-09T11:51:00.000-08:00

Two days later, and the dust has just about settled from the mid-term elections...and lo and behold, the Democrats have regained control of both the House and the Senate! And, as if wonders would never cease, Rummy has resigned!!! What is happening in this country? Is this is a clear mandate by the people to end our ceaseless war for oil? Have we resolved as a nation to put a stop to the continual erosion of civil liberties and draining of our public coffers for private profit?

I must admit I am hopeful - it seems that Brand D is something that everyone wants a part of...the time is right for serious conversation about our future as a democracy; Brand D stands for Dialogue. Brand D stands of Diversity. Brand D stands for a better Democracy.

Election Day

2006-11-07T15:33:00.000-08:00

It's a fucked up world.

Been away from the keyboard for awhile, not for lack of interest, but lack of time and mojo. My job in advertising has kept me plenty busy, and that's not a good thing. Afterall, why go through all these machinations and iterations if you're not stopping to smell the proverbial roses from time to time. I live in New York City, arguably one of the most diverse, vibrant urban nodes on earth, just chock full of museums, bars and happenings -- and all I can ever seem to do is work and stress about not making enough money. That can't be right.

Is it true, then, that we are facing the end of the middle class? That to work hard and to be well-educated is not enough? That even millionaires are making just enough to eke out existence and care for their families? What has the world come to? And why the hell should it be that a nation as rich and powerful as the united states can't provide some for of decent health care for it's citizens? Why do I only have more unanswered questions?

Sigh. It's election day, and though there's great hope that the Democrats will (possibly) regain control of the Senate, I have precious little hope for the future of our nation -- or my own future, for that matter. A two party system is too stable to risk ever risk upsetting the status quo....that special interests are far more likely to get their way than the masses who end up footing the bill. No wonder there is so much apathy, so many people my age who openly proclaim that there vote simply doesn't matter.

wireless posting...

2006-07-20T20:20:00.000-07:00

This is amazing...if it works. I'm standing on the taxi line at ohare airport at eleven o clock, est, and I can post to my blog on the world wide infernet. Truly earth shattering...this should get the attention of bin laden, george, hezbollah (sic) how come hezbollah has no spokesperson, by the way? Everyone's got a flack these days...and all the rest of the world!

Escape Velocity

2006-07-14T07:27:00.000-07:00

After nearly five years, I have overcome the inertia, and found a new job (or it found me) with the nimble ad shop Ammirati, which perhaps should be known as Ammirati 2.0 -- given its lean, mean approach providing client a full range of services with a minimum of overhead.

It's only day 3 for me, so it remains terribly early for me to make a lot of predictions. But I will say that new responsibilities, challenges and opportunities to learn are exactly what I need. To grow, spiritually as well as mentally, and nourish my entrepreneurial skills, as well as my creative ones, is essential to personal happiness.

I've taken the first step - now to keep on moving.

Saving Jolene

2006-06-10T20:50:00.000-07:00

True story. Entering the home stretch of a leisurely bike ride this very crisp, sunny afternoon, I passed a young woman who cried out to me "Can you help me, please?" I immediately braked and asked her what to do, suddenly filled with a sense of urgency and a strong desire to do good.

Her little dog had run away from her, and had headed up the block -- a brown chihuahua named Jolene. I took off on a tear, asking anyone I saw if they had seen it...at every intersection it seems to have made yet another turn, and to have covered yet another block - first a left on Rivington, then another left on Clinton, then a right on Stanton, then onto Attorney street, where a group of 3 men with their own little dog assured me that nothing had passed their way.

I doubled back, saw the girl again, circled the block, and then stopped to ask a Puerto Rican couple with a pitbull and a second, chihuahua looking dog. They immediately offered up that this was, indeed, the dog I was looking for. When another guy showed up and confirmed that it was, indeed the Jolene in question, and that she belonged to so and so at Foley and Corrina, we all marched the three blocks, a motley procession of do-gooders in search of a happy ending (no cynical chuckles, please).

The owner was truly overjoyed, and several teary embraces later, we all parted ways, good citizens with a happy story to tell and a pleasant, warm feeling in our hearts.

Into the Thick of It

2006-05-31T10:00:00.000-07:00

The funny thing is, even though blogging is so damn easy, it's almost impossible for me to get down to it every day and post a new entry. I suppose Steven Pressfield would attribute that to "Resistance," his catchall handle for the personal inertia that keeps us from our true calling...which I presumptuously assume to be writing in my case.

It's summer now, and it always amazes me how it slips up so quickly. One morning, you walk out the front door of your building, and blam - there it is: the tell tale haze hanging low like some nefarious fog, clinging to the still wet concrete, promising sweat-drenched shirts and stinky sidewalks for all.

Welcome to the domain of the Kool Man and Mr. Frosty. A/C reigns, and doggies drool. It's summertime again.

Million Hombre March

2006-05-02T09:41:00.000-07:00

Suddenly, there was shouting and chanting in the streets.

And there they were, thousands upon thousands of Illegal Immigrants, friends, relatives and sympathizers marching for amnesty. Songs not unlike soccer chants came up from the streets to our sixth floor window as the streamed by, so many that it seemed the buildings on broadway had lost their moorings and were slowly drifting uptown. As far as the eye could see, way past Houston to the North and City Hall down South, nothing but bodies unified in protest.

Personally, I'm not sure how this will all play out; whether it is right and feasible to simply grant immediate citizenship to the millions of illegals already living and working here in the U.S. But it was truly stirring to watch such an unchallenged moment of peaceful civil disobedience, a solidarity amongst Mexicans, Dominicans, and countless other nationalities bonded together in common cause, demanding rights from a government that has proven often reluctant to acknowledge or address the true needs of its citizenry.

Power to the People!

Nantucket Getaway

2006-05-01T17:58:00.000-07:00

If anyone were to read these posts, it would seem that all I ever do is go fun places. If only that were so...

But, aside from melting my host's electric tea kettle on the open flames of a gas rangetop, I have just returned from a positively delightful weekend in Nantucket. A trip that happened to coincide with the NFL Draft and the famous Daffodil weekend....Draffodil Weekend henceforth.

Drinking, smoking, eating too much, laughing, hot tubbing, sleeping in late. Ah, the life of leisure. It's just so darn seductive...

After Work Drinks

2006-04-14T07:59:00.000-07:00

There is one vital guideline to adhere to when partaking in after work drinks -- one rule which will spare you great discomfort and potential disaster. As we all know, there are few slopes more slippery than the "One Drink, Two Drinks, Three Drinks, Sure Let's Have Another Trail." There's sharks in them thar waters, because nothing tastes better after a nice tall beer than -- yep -- another tall beer.

The rule is so simple and obvious it's probably not worth mentioning, but I broke it last night, so let me say it again: eat something, fool. A steak, a sandwich, hell, even a slice of pizza. But eat something, for the love of all that is bright and shiny and good. Otherwise, you run the risk of becoming THAT GUY. The one who can't seem to stand without swaying. The one uttering sheer nonsense everytime he opens his big, beer swilling yap.

Nobody wants to be that guy.

Vacation

2006-04-10T17:06:00.000-07:00

Everyone needs a vacation.

The protesters marching in the streets of New York today need a vacation. The cops walking the barriers keeping it orderly need one as well.

Our troops fighting in Iraq sure need a break, and the insurgents should probably give their eyes a rest. All that squinting in the dark, wiring together IED's must be taking a toll on their mental health and well being.

Once upon a time, I suppose, mankind didn't take vacations. There was only the struggle to survive: Track the Woolly Mammoth, kill it, bring it home, start the fire, feed the kids, repeat.

But these days, caught in the grips of perverse modernism, filled with existential angst, over-stimulated and so fatigued we can't sleep without narcotic assistance, we need to get away once in a while. To recharge our batteries, and remind ourselves of just why it is that we get up every day. To remember what it feels like to laugh and enjoy ourselves, and what is really important.

It's strange that we literally need to forget who we are in order to be happy.

A Word on My Philosophy....

2006-03-30T09:54:00.000-08:00

A word on "Love Thy Monkey."

It's not just another meaningless catchphrase that somehow ties back into Corporate Monkey Boy. No, it's a philosophy, a way of life if you will.

There were famous experiments conducted in the 1950's by a man named Harry F. Harlow (you can read about it here), involving Rhesus monkeys. The long and short of it was two groups of infant monkeys were fed the same, and given the same amounts of water and exercise. Only one group was held and cuddled, and one was not. The first group turned out happy and healthy. The second, well, they basically went insane.

So, to extrapolate. We all need love and care and attention. We all need to be held, and to feel wanted. So it is my mission -- and I hope you will make it your mission, too -- to reach out and hold someone near to you. Because we are, in essence, just big hairless monkeys. So go forth and Love thy Monkey.

The Bodies

2006-03-28T08:57:00.000-08:00

On a slightly less morbid note, I encourage one and all to take the time to go down to South Street Seaport, and see The Bodies Exhibit. Despite the hefty 25 dollar entrance fee, it was absolutely fascinating, and educational. Tons of bodies, preserved with some sort of polymer process that allows you to see muscles, veins, arteries and organs much as they are when you're alive. Very cool stuff...

Being someone who lost my spleen in high school, seeing a normal spleen, and one swollen with Mono was particularly engrossing. And the fetal development room -- the growth that takes place in Week 8 of pregnancy is astounding.

The only question I had later was where -- exactly -- did all those bodies come from anyhow?

Tragedy

2006-02-28T07:20:00.000-08:00

I had intended the day to be special, in a different way. Driving down Ludlow street on Saturday Feb 20th to pick up my fiance for a trip out to Montauk, the car was all packed, cats watered and fed, stereo playing the right mix cd. All was better than just well with the world -- a cloudless blue sky, a perfect day for a drive and an adventure.

Ludlow was congested with cars, so I was only driving 10 mph or so. Crossing Stanton, and I slip the car into neutral, coasting. I look to my right, out the passenger side window. And she falls into frame, hitting the pavement, bouncing ever so slightly, with a bone jarring, crunching "Whomp" that I felt in my marrow. Was that a dummy fallen from a store window? It looked like a girl in jeans and black shearling jacket -- but the feet had no socks, and it was bitterly cold. Her toenails were red.

I pulled the car over, threw on the hazards, and jogged towards her. People were already appearing - a woman's face turned to me, "Someone call 911!" I backpedalled, retrieved my cell from my car, and turned back to help the young woman, if it was possible.

I repeated the address twice to the 911 dispatch -- and then she twitched violently, it looked like she was trying to use her one horribly bent arm to get up -- blood steamed down the pavement towards the gutter, deep red and coagulated in the cold. But she was breathing, it seemed. The cement was filthy, covered with refuse and cigarette butts. She lay face down, jacket pulled over her head, her lower back exposed to the cold. She had a multi colored tattoo in the shape of a diamond, and a large brown mole on the left side of her back. Her fingernails were pink. I couldn't see her face.

The EMT's arrived impossibly fast, and moved her into the back of the ambulance. But it sat there at the curb as fireman, police and denizens of her building milled about, dazed. Chinese women with their pushcarts full of laundry jostled me to get a better view.

We left after providing contact information, but it's with me still.

Dogs and Kennels

2006-01-22T17:54:00.000-08:00

So I'm musing about dogs, and spas, and kennels. What would posses a person to own a dog in NYC? Even a little one?

Because dogs are social, outdoor animals bred for herding sheep, hunting vermin and generally getting up to lots of outdoors, active type stuff. And, as we all know, New York, with it's concrete, high density and lack of general outdoors anything, is far from the best place for all that stuff.

Growing up as a child in New Jersey, we had a dog. Cleo, a temperamental, demanding little Shetland Sheepdog. She never could get over barking at Squirrels, or birds --- and she couldn't be let off the leash lest she run away and never come back.

So it must come down to companionship. That we all need to feel needed, and wanted, and that is a universal. So we would splurge on a doggy day care because we want our dog to be happy as they can be.

So, what if the message here was -- despite the higher cost -- your dog was happier if they went to a specific place everyday -- and thusly the unique selling proposition, if you will, is that your dog will love you more. How do you show that? What would a dog do to show their appreciation?

How about bring you not just the paper, and your slippers to your bed, but starbucks coffee and all the daily publications in new york? Hold the mirror for you while you shave? Bring you more toilet paper in the crapper? Hang a "welcome home from work, master!" banner on the front door? Clean up their own feces off the sidewalk? Make coffee in the morning? Pay your bills? Give massages? And if that, what's a dog massage look like? Fix the plumbing, paint the apartment, dust, mop, vacuum, brush the cat, babysit, cook you dinner....Maybe that works with the welcome home master banner...sew your buttons back on a shirt or jacket, pick up the dry cleaning, go grocery shopping, do the taxes, recycle, wash the car, wash themselves (dog in a shower?)

The Watched Pot Syndrome

2006-01-20T09:04:00.000-08:00

A simple thought, really.

But, in telling the story of my proposing to my fiance to friends last night over dinner, I was struck -- again -- by the strange phenomenon of the watched pot syndrome.

By this, I mean the inevitable cause and effect that occurs whenever you need something to happen: A job to book in, a contract to sign, a cheque to arrive, or in may case, for the phone to ring, and it just won't. You're watching the pot, and it just won't boil, hence the old adage.

In this particular case, you need the phone to ring to let you know that the ring is done, so that you can finally propose to the love of your life by the absolute deadline of Christmas. And it's Christmas Eve morning. And, after checking your phone, you see that you haven't missed any phone calls. So what do you do?

Well - you take a shower, and lather up. Make sure to use a lot of shampoo, and -- this is critical -- bring the phone into the shower. Because that is how you insure the phone will ring. As it did. And the ring was just as beautiful and unique as I had hoped it would be. Thank you Jenny at Julius Cohen Jewelers for making it happen.

But about this watched pot syndrome: It is simply further proof that time is elastic? The same way that a moment an last an eternity - or a day or week can fly by in a flash? We can control the way we experience life; our sense of satisfaction and enjoyment by structuring our own reality. In a way, it's a different way of thinking about the Romantics obsession with the "Spark of the Divine" that we all posses. Perhaps, we are more Godlike than we believe.

Or maybe I'm just hungover.

A new logo...a new era?

2006-01-18T10:34:00.000-08:00

Mostly, I just wanted to see what this looks like...I'd love to write bunch, but it is positively pouring rain outside, and I am completely swamped with work inside.

There really are never enough hours in the day - I am always pushing for more productivity, for my fingers to fly faster and with greater accuracy over the keyboard, bigger coffees, faster downloads, quicker messengers -- oh, I live in manhattan.

I kinda like the logo, though.

Any thoughts?

Everything else is just a cap

2005-12-29T14:59:00.000-08:00

A terrible tagline by any stretch.

Here's this company, La Coppola Storta, a bespoke Sicilian hat company that makes caps to order, from any material on earth, including fabrics near and dear to your heart in the style of your choosing - and all there is to say is "Everything else is just a cap?"

Hmm....This bears some thinking.

What is a hat, if not an outward symbol of one's personal flair and style? As a child, I used to read Tintin comics religiously, and he used to wear a Coppola style newsboy cap. My mother made me knickers, I was so obsessed with the exploits of this young reporter and his dog - I had a cap that went with it (I never had the London Fog trench coat, though).

A hat is old-fashioned - in a good way. Like walks in the park, going to church on Sundays, carrying a hankerchief, opening doors for ladies, courtship, pints at the pub, Sunday drives, horse and carriages, open air markets, trolley cars, reading the newspaper, telegraphs, public telephones. I would guess there is a hearty air of nostalgia at work here - after all, a hat is just a hat, an object, a fashion piece. But there is something about the Coppola Storta that conjures up a more straightforward life, of harvests and hard work and family. A time and place without blackberries, cell phones email and the like. Headspace. Wrap your head around something, where is your head at...

And then this idea of being able to transform a beloved object into a hat that you can wear again - a second life, an new existence. We all would like to beleive that when we die, it's not the end. That our spirit lives on, we travel further (and hopefully upwards, enlightenment wise). And here is a product that offers a chance at redemption, a way of giving a second chance to a beloved scarf, blanket, jacket or shirt.

Mass Transit and the Xmas crunch

2005-12-21T12:06:00.000-08:00

It's day 2 of the MTA transit strike, and boy is it cold outside.

Having missed my last Adhouse class to attend a Christmas get together out in Greenwich, CT, I don't have any specific products or services to muse about - which is a bit of relief, let me say. Because I spend far too much time ruminating about advertising as it is. Though, as Steven Pressfield says in his excellent little tome "The Art of War," "There's no mystery to turning Pro. It's a decision brought about by an act of will. We make up our minds to view ourselves as pro and we do it. Simple as that." Write, work, play, practice, do it - or don't. But don't talk about it. Just get it done.

So, in the spirit of the warrior and the hunter and the artisan, I once again rededicate myself to the craft of writing, to the invocation of the Muse.

I woke up yesterday early - at 6:00 a.m. It was still grey halflight, and I was slightly sodden still with booze's embrace. And yet, it was quiet. Too quiet, and there was the faint thrumming of helicopter blades. Which, living near the Williamsburg Bridge as I do, could only mean one thing. The MTA had gone on strike. There would be no trains, and no busses that day, and perhaps, for days to come.

Now, living and working downtown as I do, it's certainly not the greatest inconvenience that could befall me, personally as Manhattanite. In fact, as I walked to work that morning, it occurred to me that it was something of a novelty. With HOV checkpoints manned by police, the city was eerily empty of traffic. Crossing bowery, a rusty van pulled up tot he curb, and dispensed two hipsters in North Face puffies, clearly having hopped aride with some stranger who needed the extra passengers. And I thought, there is New York at it's finest - strangers getting along, and bonding together (as when the lights went out several years ago) to help get things done. It's just too small a place, and there are too many of us for everyone to do go it alone. We need each other. I mused lazily about the possibilities - chance encounters of strangers falling in love in a cab ride downtown to the financial district. Later, speaking with my mom, she told of riding with a stranger who was only one small degree away - having been the friend of a former officemate. Not to mention the girl on her way to the methadone clinic uptown, a visit that simply could not be postponed or rescheduled, strike or no strike.

But then you think of all those who waited three or more hours in traffic, just to get to the jobs they need so desperatly to pay their bills. And the frigid, arctic wind...and you start thinking this strike thing kinda sucks afterall.

Tums, and other things...

2005-11-23T09:16:00.000-08:00

Well, let' see. It's the day before Thanksgiving, and all is (relatively) well with my world. Of course, there are all of the usual rampant inequities/injustices: Racial and gender gaps, extreme free market pillaging of the resources, a farce of an executive office, a war without foreseeable end, rioting in France, Regis Philbin - ah, what a tangled web we weave.

In any event, I have been negligent in my writing, and so I re-dedicate myself.

First up - I've got 2 assignments for class, so it's nose to the grindstone.

Tums - what is it that Tums does, and why is it so very important to us in our daily lives.

Well, if the unemployment index is any sign, then we should know that our lives here in America are continually stressfully. Overtaxed, overworked, stressed over car payments, education for our kids, our unhealthy dietary habits, fear of getting laid off, fear induced by the government - all of this toxic anxiety causes stress, and that frequently induces heartburn. Too much stomach acid, and, crap - the day is shot. You can think of nothing but the discomfort and the pain.

So what am I trying to say here? That taking a Tums will let you get back to the busy work of ruining your life. I mean, living your life.

If you're on a date - TUMS will save you from blowing it. If you've got an important new business pitch, or a sales meeting, well, TUMS can help you there too. Going out for the big game/nascar race? TUMS. San Genaro (sic) and Italian sausages? TUMS. Big date with the new hottie on the block? TUMS. Wings, beer, sports? TUMS. The perfect rack of lamb and a crisp white wine at your favorite Greek restaurant, and all you want to do is curl up in a ball of misery in the dark? TUMS.

Who invented TUMS? According to company propaganda, a pharmacist first concocted it for his wife to treat her chronic acid stomach. He created it to help save his own life - must have grown tired of hearing her complain in agony.

What if we are looking at famous work places of people we know and love/admire/hate?
And there, right next to the President's red phone and ceremonial NRA letter opener, sits a jumbo bottle of TUMS?
Who else endures great stress?
Pilots, air traffic controllers, school teachers, stock brokers/traders, brain surgeons, opera singers, ballet dancers, executioners, Olympic athletes, Saddam Hussein, Jacques Chirac, the hot dog eating contestants at Nathan's annual showdown...

More thoughts on this later, I hope.

Hockey Part 3

2005-10-17T07:52:00.000-07:00

Hockey is, in many places in this world, a religion every bit as revered as Islam, Catholicism or Football (Texas style).

And when you see it played, you can understand why. Is there any truer thing of beauty than a bone jarring open ice hit? The kind that can be heard all the way up in the nosebleeds? The "whoomp" of collapsing lungs and body armor clashing?

One player accelerates on his skates, pumping heavily muscled quads driving the steam engine-like mass, pistoning, homing in on the target, crouched low, like a 240 pound battering ram. And, right before contact, the juggernaut springs up and forward, hands clenched together on hockey shaft, shoulders down but moving up towards the target's midsection. Contact. Superior momentum and low center of gravity assure complete and total annihilation.

On a good hit, helmet, stick, gloves will all go flying willy nilly across the ice, skittering in all directions like shrapnel from a bomb blast. And there will be a brief pause as every eyeball in the place takes in the hit, the crumpled mass of the victim - a collective - "ooh" as much a silent cry of anguish as an actual aural sensation.

And then the crowd will cheer, or boo, or makes one noise in appreciation of this thing of beauty, this primeval clash of titans, the winner skating on, the loser crushed, immobile, defeated. This outpouring is more than mere crowd reaction; this is an "amen" from the flock, signifying "we are cleansed" by this raw display of unmitigated agression. This moment of real.

Hockey Part 2

2005-10-13T15:10:00.000-07:00

There was a time when Hockey was played without helmets.

Think about that for a moment. Not only are we talking about a full contact sport, hurdling across the hard ice at breakneck (intersting word, breakneck) with fighting and bone jarring hits...but the puck itself is made from vulcanized rubber, hard as steel, and prone to taking flight at the least flick of the wrist.

So you can imagine the days of old school hockey - talk about men. When I moved to New Jersey in 1986, my friend down the block had season tickets. So we'd go to games all the time (I will always maintain that I have had a blessed life). And back then, the NHL had only recently instituted a mandatory helmet rule - for new players. All the old and current players went without. And man, we are talking about 2- 3 bench clearing brawls a game. Especially brutal when the Philadelphia Flyers were in town (lookout - it's Marty McTavish!) or the Washington Captitals. Either team provided ample fisticuffs, bad attitudes and brutal mid-ice body checks. Ah, the good times I had at Brendan Byrne Arena.

But, even further back, hockey goalies didn't wear helmets or face masks. In the days of legendary Hobie Baker (a fellow St. Paul's alumnus) goalies faced slapshots with a padded sweater and a steely eyed stare. No protective fiberglass helmet, no metal grill, no mouth guard. One supersonic black puck of death, covering hundreds of feet in a fraction of a second. And no protection but the quick reflexes and utter certainty of bad-ass-ness.

Hockey...A great game

2005-10-12T12:46:00.000-07:00

Growing up as a kid in Northern New Jersey, my parent's refused to join the local country club because the had restrictive policies about who could join; i.e. no blacks, Jews or other undesirables. Which, to this day, is something I applauded. Evil, after all, is often times petty, banal and mundane. And we all have to do our part to do the right thing.

But, not belonging to the country club meant, ultimately, that I was unable to learn how to ice skate, so no ice hockey for me. Which is something that makes me a little sad.

In high school, then in college, I became a dedicated club hockey regular. Any opportunity to strap on my fifth generation hockey pants, mis-matched stockings held up by a rusty garter belt, yellowed jersey and sea-brine stinky shoulder pads, topped with a green Jofa helmet was a chance I could not miss. Even now, I can smell the musty odor of sweat stain hockey gear, mouldering away in an overstuffed black duffle bag. Powerful stuff.

It's a strange sensation; underneath the body armor, you're half naked, and skating across an expanse of frozen ice. And yet, you are working so hard to pick up speed, careen after the puck, push it from side to side, make passes, hockey stop, and then do it all over again, that sweat pours off of you, steam literally coalescing in the air around your head. Never before had I had so much fun working so damn hard.

And the thing about a game of hockey is that it barely ever stops. You change lines on the fly. Should you be so lucky as to lay a bone crushing hit on an opponent, ideally against the boards (his lunges compressing "Whoosh!", the glass clattering with the intesity, the satisfaction of skating off as he crumples in pain, going down) the game doesn' stop unless you really hurt them. Like one way ticket to the hospital turn on the flashing lights and siren hurt. Otherwise, it's on with the game.

They say Puckheads are hard. Well, it's true. Those dudes have a massive tolerance for pain. It's not like being a soccer player, where you play to the referee, over emphasize the least phyiscal transgression. No. In Hockey, nobody cares. Nobody wants to know how much that hurt. It's all about taking it. It's like the Marine Corp. There's a healthy dose of masochism involved. Which I can respect.

Transportation, cont'd

2005-10-09T12:58:00.000-07:00

Alright.

So there your are. It's six'o'clock by your in-dash clock. Being German, it is totally correct.

And you are stuck in the feeder traffic on 10th Ave, in the rain. With thousands of other motorists, trying to get into the Lincoln Tunnel. It's been grey all day, and now it's getting dark. And your flight leaves from Teterboro. In one hour.

You pump your clutch for thirty minutes, never getting into 2nd gear. But throughout all of this, as you sit in your volkswagon GTI, you don't lose your shit. The seats are confortable. You, having had the presence of mind to keep good music in the car, listen to an excellent mix on the very capable monsoon stereo. You tell your girl "It's all going to be fine."

A small, sleek center of well designed calm amidst a sea of frustrated humanity.

And then it's New Jersey - heavy traffic, local roads, crappy rain and slick pavement. It's Friday night in the meadowlands.

But we make great time, chaning lanes passing, navigating to somewhat reputable handwritten directions, one eye on the clock, the sense of urgency made worse by a dire need to urinate.

The GTI was a champion. Sailed over the railroad tracks, left onto industrial ave and there we were. 7:10 p.m. Made the flight - in the air by 7:22 p,m.

Booyah.

Morning Commute

2005-10-07T11:02:00.000-07:00

Terrorists threaten the subways of New York. That sucks.

But, selfishly, it won't ruin my day. Because most days, barring heavy rain or snowstorm, I get on my bike and ride. And save those four dollars there and back.

Every morning, I hate getting out of bed. I pound down two cups of coffee just to get my eyes open, throw myself in the shower, and get dressed. Probably much like every other New Yorker. Just out of bed, and already thinking out the details of the day, making lists, remembering all those details: Phone calls, emails, packages to send out, reservations to make, yadda yadda. The banalities that make up life.

But then, I kiss my girl goodbye, and I'm out the door. And things start to look up. Because I head down to the basement, and unlock my bike. Carry it one flight up to the lobby and out the front door. And now, I am ready.

I look at the sky, check the wind, look for oncoming traffic, and I'm off. Morning excercise doubling handily as my commute. With the flow of traffic West on Delancey - across Grand, left on Lafayette, right on Howard, and hop the curb at Broadway, dismount. Seven minutes, tops.

And when the elevator doors open, I roll to my desk, awake and ready.

While my coworkers grunt monosyllabically at each other "How are you?" "Grunt." "Good Morning!" "Grunt." My brain is ready for the fresh perspectives of the day. My best thouhgts, shaken lose by my quick transit and raised heart rate, tumble out of my now limber mind. If I have writing to do, or some serious reading and analysis, there is no better time than that first hour of the morning when I am quick, and they are slow.

Chapter 1

2005-10-06T20:21:00.000-07:00

When the world runs dry, when the last drop of black gold/dinosaur juice is wrenched from the earth, the machines will grind to a halt. All of the easy motoring days, drive through burger joint strip malls and far flung suburban enclaves will be useless. Irrelevant. The discman will stop spinning, and you will not be able to hop in your car, burn a cretaceous hindquarter there and back, and buy new disposable double aa batteries.

No. Disposable will end.

And who will come pedalling out of this dark future?

Kid Feral, astride his tatinium framed custom cruiser, knobby tires for caressing the harsh concrete and countless, gnarly off-roads. For, in truth, this is a world of off-road.

No more smooth pavement, endless blacktop over which to roll, smoothly and silently.

Welcome to the New World Order.

Slick track is reserved for the Velo Drome Matches. The ultimate test of the fastest and the mightest of the Nuevo Plains Riders. In a world where everyone rides bicycles, these are the champions. The best. The ones to worship. A caste of lawgivers and messengers in the new dark age. An age of enclaves, small communities, isolated by long distances. People who live as a village, with little outside communication.

Into which step the mighty warriors.

You can imagine the excitement. As a young child, you are very much aware of your world. And there you are, sitting. Watching. Waiting. The crows eye your crop. Perhaps, watching sheep grazing. Slowly. And then -

there, on the horizon - a small speck against the post ozone horizon. Brutal.

A rider.

Bike Crazy

2005-10-04T18:54:00.001-07:00

Write, he said.

About a form of transportation that inspires us, moves and shakes us to the very core of our being. This would be for my Adhouse class, and he would my instructor, Nat Whitten, a very cool dude and inspiring teacher in the ways of creative thinking thus far.

So he says "Pick the mode of transport that inpires you, or you love, and write about for thirty minutes each day."

Right, I said. Easy. A no brainer.

I like cars. Actually, I obsess about them. I've always loved driving - someday, I will have a muscle a car of my own. And 1973 Datsun 240Z. And, in the realm of the here and now, I love my Volkswagon GTI with unbounded love. It's sleek leather interior, the sunroof that opens all the way, and just pops for circulation, the five speed manual transmission, it's speedy 180 horsepower, the way it takes off like a shot from the toll, it's fat racing tires. The way it looks just sitting by the curb, expectantly.

But I love - beyond reason - bicycles. Mountain bikes, racing bikes, freestyle bikes, cyclocross bikes. At one point or another, I have had at least one of each of them (except the for a cyclocross bike, but just you wait) - usually several at a time. I slow down and check out bikes locked to meters. I salivate when I bike (or occasionally - oh the shame! walk) past Velo Bikes on 2nd avenue, with their sublime Bianchi's and solid Kona's. Scoff at the losers with their downhill jobs that cruise central park - yeah, you really need over ten inches of travel to negotiate the horse path. Wankers. And most of all, I look for those great early 90's hand built steel frames from Gary Fisher and Specialized, the one's that are immaculately maintained and totally personalized by bike dorks like myself. Guys who love to be in the saddle more than (almost) anything in the world. And unlike sex, there's no limit. You can just keep going and going. And you don't need anybody else's permission. Nobody else's feelings matter. It's just you and the bike and the wind and the pavement. You are as close to free as you can get in this world.

No matter how shitty a day it has been, it all starts looking a lot better as soon as I get on to my Trek. (I used to ride my beast of mountain bike, but lately I've switched over to this Frankenstein, free wheeling single geared Trek I bought for 150 bucks from some guy in Cliffside Park, NJ. Gotta love Craigslist).

So the trek is light. So light, maybe 17 pounds, if that. And as soon as I put one foot on the pedal and swing up into the saddle, I'm gone. My mind buoys up and away, and I can't help but smile as the pavement falls away beneath me, pedestrians glancing with jealously as I leave their mortal trudging behind. Working to an even pace, the bike is cruising now, my hands gently resting on the front grips, my hips shifting easily from side to side. On the avenues and wide streets, I am even with the flow of traffic. As things get snarled, or a redlight looms, I slip from side to side, looking for an opening - if I run a light, I slow and cross to the far side of the street, allowing me to see as much of the oncoming traffic as possible, judging speed, distance, stopping times, light changes. Pedestrians are a good measure - watch them jaywalk, follow their line of sight if you can't yet see down the side street. Saves time and energy - no need to waste precious inertia. Life is. I am. Alive.

Sure, you can go faster in a car, or ripping it up on a motorcycle. And a cab will get you there without the sweat. But this is why I live in manhattan. A little sweat reminds me that I am here to compete, to play the game, to press my luck, to beat the odds. I don't gamble - but I love to bike. It reminds me of what I am here for.

Service of Self

2005-08-02T10:39:00.000-07:00

Have you ever noticed how much easier it is to sign yourself up for a given service than it is to get rid of that service?

Having entered into an unholy cabal with Time Warner Cable several months ago (primarly because I "need" high speed internet, and Time Warner seems to have a monopoly on such service here in Manhattan) I decided I would do away with my cable box altogether. It seems reasonable to think that I will survive without one more source of mind-numbing entertainment. And hopefully save a few dollars in the process.

But every step of the way, it seems, Time Warner Cable did not want to let me out of their grasp. The first attempt to end service was "mistakenly" noted as an inquiry, not an actual change in service. A second phone call was neccesary to amend that mistake. And both requests were met by offers for lower cable rates coupled with the assurance of higher billing for just the internet connection - a shitty deal I took, given that I have no choice in the matter.

So, then came the good part. To get cable - all you have to do is pick up your phone, and they come right to you. But to cancel that service, well, that's a whole different matter. The cable box must be dropped off in person, and that requires visiting one of their Customer Service Centers. Which, by the way, bears more than a passing resemblence to some sort of purgatory; one that looks like the DMV - with faux marble and flat screen televisions blaring.

And the people - well, let's just say that while I was waiting for number, 522, to be called over the PA, my resolve was strengthened to never watch television again. How people can spend their hard earned money - and their precious time - willingly making themselves dumber, and less active, is beyond me. Life, I have recently been reminded, is fleeting. What does the television truly offer but the palest imitation of life? How many of your happiest memories involve a Toshiba flatscreen?

Better to read a book, call a friend, have a beer, make love, go for a walk, pet your cat, ride a bike, write a letter. Or just about anything, really.

The Games We Play

2005-07-22T12:36:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I was writing about an innocuous event from my past, an event seemingly brought to mind by the summer's heat, olfactory sensations, and not much else.

However, standing in the shower last night, washing the sweat from my skin, I realized what had really brought those memories to the surface. I had received rather unhappy news about developments in the lives of several friends from my college days that morning. And I suppose, having heard the news at work, I quickly buried them. So what ended up coming out in my writing yesterday was, in a very roundabout way, addressing that weighty news. The human mind is clearly a very tricky thing. Use it at your own peril.

On that subject of the human mind, I read an incredibly fascinating piece in last week's New York Times magazine piece on the subject of the subconcious, narratives, framing and the Democratic party. I won't waste anyone's time attempting to regurgitate the article here, but I will say that the article profiles linguist and current Democrat It-Boy George Lakoff. I just got his book "Don't Think of an Elephant" today from Amazon - and I am very much looking forward to giving it a thorough read.

And if anyone out there - (if there is anyone is out there) is looking for a film recommendation, please go get Peter Watkin's "Punishment Park" (1971). Frighteningly, though the fictional documentary film was shot in 1971, it could not be more relevant, with it's quasi-judicial military tribunals, anticipation of reality tv's outer limits and a government hell bent on suspending civil liberties in the name of "Freedom" and national security. Note that I said film, and not movie.

In any event, that seems enough food for thought for the moment - so look lively, and as the sign says, watch your step.

Summer Days...or, What Is That Smell!?!

2005-07-21T14:22:00.000-07:00

New York is, as usual at this time of year, a sweltering mess. And it seems to me a singulary New York experience to be surrounded by some of the most stylishly dressed, sexy women in the world (wearing next to nothing, but doing it with such panache) - and all one can think about how the street smells to high heaven.

Not fifteen minutes ago, I left my office (that's the view from the office above, looking North on broadway) and braved the streets of lower broadway to attempt picking up my bicycle from the bike shop (more on that fiasco later). Not suprisingly, it was positively teeming with bodies - tourists, sweaty business guys in suits jackets, mother/daughter shopping drop teams equipped with the latest in modern consumer hardware, Greenpeace ruffians, and many more. Despite the heat of the early afternoon sun, they soldiered on, in search of what I'm never quite sure. Shopping requires a certain mindset - much like golf. If you're not feeling it, you're not feeling.

In any event, in walking East on Prince Street, I had the ill fortune of crossing Crosby Street. And it was there that I encountered a smell unlike anything have smelled since - College. In the basement of a certain fraternity to which I once swore my allegiance. The whole house smelled, but the vilest stench of all dwelled in the basemnt, where the beer taps were located. Down there, in the dingy dark whole where we went to drink daily, there was a closet. The Keg Closet, located behind the taps. Where all of the excess spilled beer would run, thanks to a non-functioning drain pipe, and the fact that it sat at the lowest point in the basement. We would keep it locked most days, lest we lose any one to the dank, black bile that would coagulate there. A heinous bacterial experiment gone wrong - inky black with bits of white jetsam on its surface. And the smell. The smell was - indescribable. It would cling to the insides of your nose, and linger for days. It was enough to drive a man, or woman, mad. My friends and I almost killed each other one summer's day, mopping that closet out. But that is another story entirely.

But Crosby street, with all of it's posh euro shoopers and hip downtown denizens, smelled that damn bad. I nearly vomited. I love New York with a passion, but sometimes the smell is too much even for me.

The First...

2005-07-21T09:02:00.000-07:00

of many interesting texts I will contribute to the blogosphere.
I will now, and henceforth dedicate myself to writing things that are worthy of your time. No small task in this day and age of overstimulation, certainly.

Let the games begin!