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It’s 9:58 AM and so far today I’ve:

• woken up at 4:00 (again) because of my back
• gotten a breakfast I didn’t order
• endured constant jackhammering since I got to work (which started today after months of peaceful silence)
• overheard the loud woman at work, many many times
• dealt with a government employee that didn’t understand or speak English

I picked the wrong day to quit smoking.  I think the gods are conspiring against me!

I think I’m going to start using the name “The Lynx”, and referring to myself in the third person as such, a la “The Fonz”, or “The Todd”.  Mmmm, sitcom supporting cast member names.  Now all I need is a catchphrase.  How about, “Eat a sandwich!”

That is all.  The Lynx is out.

A friend of mine has started a new blog, found at 2008sucks.blogspot.com.  In honor of the sentiment, I offer this as my first entry:

It’s been called America’s Colosseum.  It’s hosted the three popes, John Philip Sousa, and Nelson Mandella.  It’s where Joe Louis knocked out Max Schmeling in the first round as the world listened in.  Knute Rockne gave arguably the greatest inspirational speech in sports history when he asked his Fightin’ Irish to “win one for the Gipper”.  It was home to the New York Giants, and to Pele and his New York Cosmos.

It has housed the New York Yankees since the Ruth era, bearing witness to a dominance in sports unparalleled in any sport, by any team (the Yankees have averaged over one in four World Series championships for the last one hundred years).  Indeed, the Yankees are America’s ball club.

Mickey Mantle played in Yankee stadium.  So did Reggie Jackson.  And Roger Clemens.  And Mariano Rivera.  Joe D.  Yogi.  Jeter.  And those are just the Yankees.  Ted Williams played there (and was almost swapped for Ruth in a dream trade that fell through).  Jackie Robinson played at the Stadium.  Willie Mays homered in the 1960 All-Star Game at Yankee Stadium.  And this past Tuesday, the heroes of a new generation played the most exciting All-Star Game I’ve ever stayed up until 2:00 in the morning to see!

Bobby Richardson hit his famous World Series grand slam as my father listened in the back of his father’s car.  Richardson went on to be honored as MVP for the Series (the only time the honor has been bestowed on a losing team’s player).

Babe Ruth is rumored to have called his shot there.  Roger Maris and Mickey Mantle, the M&M boys, battled to beat Ruth’s record there, with Maris succeeding (without steroids) with 61 in ‘61.  Three perfect Yankee pitchers tossed three perfect games there.  And who can forget the Iron Horse?  I still get choked up every time I see Gehrig consider himself the luckiest man on the face of the Earth.

Yankee Stadium is more than a stadium.  It is a piece of history.  It’s a piece of America.  And now they’re going to tear it down.

I don’t know why no one has thought to landmark the building.  Or why everyone seems content to acknowledge that we’re demolishing such an historic venue and say nothing more.  Not I.  I think it’s a shame.  I think it’s a sham.

You ask me why 2008 sucks?  That’s easy; it’s the year we decided to destroy our home.

I had a great time last night at the Al Goldstein Speed Series 5K in Prospect Park.  It was my first time running in Prospect Park and I absolutely love the 3+ mile loop.  I annhialated my goal of 45 minutes with a finish time of 31:36!  Not only that, but Francis took second place in our age bracket!

For more information on the race, which is held every other Wednesday, visit http://www.pptc.org.

I finally dozed off about 3:00 am.

When the alarm went off I missed it.  After a minute, Francis shook me awake.  I heard the alarm and bounded out of bed.  It was the morning of my first 10K race.

Before I really knew what was going on, my subconsious was already in action, seeing to it that I got dressed and started to make my way to the race.  As we made our way to the park I could feel my body starting to respond to the fresh air, and the cobwebs cleared from my mind.

The start of the race was on the other side of the park, so Francis and I jogged over to get our numbers and scoring chips.

Thousands of runners milled about the tents, getting their shirts, and grabbing last-minute carbs.  After we had gotten ours, we walked over to our starting pen.

Since it was sponsored in part by the Napoli Road Runner’s club, the race was preceeded by the Italian and American national anthems.  (The night before, Bon Jovi had performed the Italian-American national anthem, Wanted, Dead or Alive, in the park.)  When the race started we hardly knew it.  We couldn’t see the starting line from 6,000 deep.  The heads started bobbing up and down like droplets bouncing off of a lake.

When I crossed the finish line, just under my goal of an hour and a half, Jenny was waiting for me.  I grabbed an apple and tried to catch my breath.  Jen, Francis, and I walked back to the west side and caught a cab for home.  It was an exhausting effort, but I felt great (mentally if not physically).  I can see myself liking this.

With 18 table seats and 8 more at the bar, this tiny sushi shop on 446 Dean opens with smiles from the staff, if not the traditional sushi bar greeting (which I can live without).  Sapporo (on tap!) and also-rans make up the beer list, and there are some OK saki selections as well.  Selections are par, but minus a point for no unagi roll on a 90 degree day.  Hand-written dessert cards litter the bar, but I didn’t have much hope and assume the selections, the ice creams typical of a joint like this, weren’t worth the calories printed on the side of their cartons.  Methodical chefs with no flare, but plenty talent quickly prepare my rolls.  The salmon skin is surprisingly warm, and things are looking up!  Tempura asparagus roll is sweet, salty, and delicious, not needing any soy sauce.  The sauce does add some complexity to the rolls, but is superfluous. The staff enjoy one another and chatter about circuit city and personal things.  A missed order is heard by all in this hole in the wall, but the staff are on the case, delivering the chicken teryaki in five minutes.  An obligatory kitana blade and dried puffer fish adorn the back wall, but the restaurant is otherwise without decor and needs paint desperately.

Food - 6
Atmosphere - 7
Drinks - 4
Cost - $$

I’m sitting outside SouthWest New York as I type this and am trying to think of something to write. The sun is about to set behind the Jersey City skyline which, come to think of it, isn’t that bad of a view. The yachts are bobbing up and down in the basin, their masts making wild metronome motions in sync, then out. An asian man with hair a few inches below his shoulders scopes out the crowd of finance types. He has on a plaid green and orange shirt and a baseball cap and, from the back anyway appears to be about eighteen. When he turns I see from the lines on his face and the yellow of his teeth that he is more likely thirty-five, and he tends to the two daughters, six and nine, that work at their homework with furious intensity. Back and forth he goes between them and the edge of the park, clearly waiting for someone or something. He is Vietnamese, or perhaps Cambodian, I can never tell, in long enough to have started acclimating via his wardrobe, but not long enough yet to avoid buying tan jeans that have the word Cucci printed on the right rear pocket. How then does he make his living?

It’s an odd amalgam of wanna be brokers with downtown lofts and those who have accepted their station and moved to Jersey to raise a family. I straddle these two types now, having recently wed, but I can’t imagine ever wanting to leave this town. Life in New York can be satisfyingly anonymous when one wants, and I’m not ready to give up my idiosyncrasies so I can impress the other boring folks that by luck have purchased a home next to mine, same model, different color, row after row of the people farms, where the young are grown to feed the next generation of the economy.

I wait as three generations come to join me. Uncle Marty and Aunt Muriel, my mother-in-law’s relatives from San Francisco have made the trip across the continent to see their great niece wed to me. And a great niece she is. We saw them when we went to San Fran earlier this year, and I wonder when and if we will see them again. In tow will be my new mother- and father-in-law, with Jenny to follow last I presume. We’re gathering to with the aunt and uncle a bon voyage back to the coast, and one for us I imagine as we’re off to destinations south on our official honeymoon.

Plenty of people are walking by and I’m waiting for one to strike me so I can write about them. Do they realize they’re being judged on their ability to impress me? How many of them would act differently if they knew? As I fiddle with the ring that is possibly one size too big, I recall the argument Jenny and I had last night. That’s for another time; I’m not ready to write about that. Of course the real problem is that I’m not ready to write about any of it. Caught in a constant state of hypertension, I’m rarely ready for anything. I’m looking forward to the time away from the job that I loathe, and I’m spent. My back hurts, I’m getting a headache, and this will be another of those nights. I need rest but am restless, so what am I to do? And why do I always pair my phrases together to make sentences, one coming right after the other as though the afterthought makes up for the simplicity of the first. I’m tired now and want to go to sleep.

I know it’s been a while, but between the wedding and graduation, the site came is way behind other priorities.  So, to welcome you all back, here is a quick piece entitled “Walk to the train”

As I head out the door, some old homeless guy with scratched glasses and hunched shoulders mumbles something to me like, “I got mugged… but dey didn ged anything coz I hid my muhnee in my shoo.”

I thought it was a bit like Loathing, but now I wonder if he wasn’t somebody’s alzheimic grandfather.  Better glasses and he could be. Wait! Was he wearing a blue jacket?  He might have been a resident! The glasses could be ’cause he’s cheap, or because he can’t afford new ones because he’s on a fixed income.  I really hope he’s ok.

Lizard in a Mexican hat,
What do you think of this marina?
And do you know that I, a foreigner in this land,
Do not see your majesty, but your folly alone?
Where is your dignity?
And will you eat from the pesos that I give to your warden?

Lizard in a Mexican hat,
You make me sad.

Boom boom,
bam, bam,
you’re dead,
ham, ham!

Knock, knock!
Who’s there?
Green.
Green who?
Green beans!

You take the fat,
You take the fat,
You take the fat,
You take the fat,
and there you have,
Natalie!

Do the Cheryl!
Swing your legs,
from side to side!
Come on, let’s go!
It’s time to do the Cheryl!

Everywahuhon wants to behe like
Pepper, Pepper, Pepper, Pepper!
Everywahuhon wants to behe like,
The most popular kid in school,
whose name just happens to be,
…Pepper, Pepper, Pepper, Pepper!

Thank you, thank you,
THANK ME!!!