Cape Cod cuties
En route to Liberty Island
Mme. Liberte et Moi
Liberty clones in various stages of undress
Flirting with the camera
Molly takes Manhattan
View from the 86th floor
Meanwhile, my porch-bound tomatoes bear fruit!
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Levity to Cut Blog Fog
I’m having a bit of a blogging impasse, hence the lack of entries lately. Everything I think to write seems either silly and shallow (not worthy of following my post about Pete) or incredibly personal (too delicate for a blog post). Perhaps a photo-heavy blog entry documenting my recent feats of tourism will build a bridge back into my normal bloggerhood.
Cape Cod cuties
En route to Liberty Island
Mme. Liberte et Moi
Liberty clones in various stages of undress
Flirting with the camera
Molly takes Manhattan
View from the 86th floor
Meanwhile, my porch-bound tomatoes bear fruit!
Cape Cod cuties
En route to Liberty Island
Mme. Liberte et Moi
Liberty clones in various stages of undress
Flirting with the camera
Molly takes Manhattan
View from the 86th floor
Meanwhile, my porch-bound tomatoes bear fruit!
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Pete
There’s going to be a memorial service for an old boyfriend of mine, Pete. He disappeared from a boat a month ago. From what I understand, they never found him, but they presume he is dead. Here is the horrible news that came in a message through the grape vine, originally from his family:
“We are trying to locate Peter. On July 24th, he boarded the passenger boat Hiryu at 8pm local time, traveling from Naha, Okinawa, Japan to Nagoya, Japan. He was last seen at 9pm, and was discovered missing at 9:30pm. It was dark, the waves were 3’ swells, and the boat was approximately two miles from the shore of Ie Jima island.
At this point, Pete’s parents believe that Peter died while in the water. We hope he may be staying with friends in Japan. Could you please send us (or call us with) any contacts you might know of Peter’s friends everywhere.”
It’s been probably ten years since I loved Pete. And it wasn’t one of those serious loves--no, it was more like a confusing, precious learning experience with lots of potent memories--so typical of the infatuations of one’s early twenties. I don’t think we’ve corresponded once since we broke up, but I have been tracking his adventures through a mutual friend who loves us both. At one point he was traveling the world and finding odd jobs, such as working at a Chinese publishing company where he read American best sellers and made recommendations for Asian publication, or at least that’s how the glamorous occupation appeared through the lens of a nostalgic old flame.
I knew Pete before he’d caught his international travel bug. I knew him when he was all about listening to the Flaming Lips, hiking with his two short-hair German pointers (Luke and Leia), quitting crappy jobs, finding the perfect inexpensive snack food, soaking at local swimming holes, dying his hair flame-tipped orange, getting a girlie tattoo, drinking cheap beer, and taking road trips in his sexy, red Buick convertible.
The funniest thing he ever told me is that a group of his best high-school buddies went on a camping trip to the Grand Canyon, and at the last minute he wasn’t allowed to go along with them. I can’t remember why, but they ran out of water somehow on their multi-day hike, so they were cotton-mouthed and pissing sludge by the time they were “rescued” days later. Pete told me that he was green with envy, because they had gone through such an adventure together and he had missed out on the experience. At age 20, this sentiment struck me as crazy, because as much as I loved camping, I liked my adventures tame. (Probably why we never made it as a couple.) Now that I think about it, it seems less shocking that he would die in some bizarre way--washed off a boat in an oriental sea. I’m not going to say that he would have wanted it that way--he wouldn’t have. He would have wanted to live to tell the story.
I’m afraid to go to his memorial service, afraid because I have this sinking feeling that Pete will pull a Tom Sawyer on us and show up, smiling his funny smile and only half aware that everyone assembled is grieving the loss of him. And we would all be angry and happy and furious for the worry that he had caused. And I can’t bear the thought of him getting into so much trouble for just being his adventurous, carefree self. Or, maybe what I’m really afraid of is that we’ll all show up secretly hoping for his miraculous return, only to feel like tragic fools when we realize that such an appearance is a fantasy and he really is gone.
A mutual friend said to me, “We loved him best.” It’s true. We loved him at that delicate and beautiful age when we were just discovering our adult selves and our place in the world and you could first see the basic shape of our lives forming.
Rest in peace, sweet friend.
Peter Vlach (March 26, 1976 - July 24, 2006)
Pete when I knew him
[Both images from his memorial website]
“We are trying to locate Peter. On July 24th, he boarded the passenger boat Hiryu at 8pm local time, traveling from Naha, Okinawa, Japan to Nagoya, Japan. He was last seen at 9pm, and was discovered missing at 9:30pm. It was dark, the waves were 3’ swells, and the boat was approximately two miles from the shore of Ie Jima island.
At this point, Pete’s parents believe that Peter died while in the water. We hope he may be staying with friends in Japan. Could you please send us (or call us with) any contacts you might know of Peter’s friends everywhere.”
It’s been probably ten years since I loved Pete. And it wasn’t one of those serious loves--no, it was more like a confusing, precious learning experience with lots of potent memories--so typical of the infatuations of one’s early twenties. I don’t think we’ve corresponded once since we broke up, but I have been tracking his adventures through a mutual friend who loves us both. At one point he was traveling the world and finding odd jobs, such as working at a Chinese publishing company where he read American best sellers and made recommendations for Asian publication, or at least that’s how the glamorous occupation appeared through the lens of a nostalgic old flame.
I knew Pete before he’d caught his international travel bug. I knew him when he was all about listening to the Flaming Lips, hiking with his two short-hair German pointers (Luke and Leia), quitting crappy jobs, finding the perfect inexpensive snack food, soaking at local swimming holes, dying his hair flame-tipped orange, getting a girlie tattoo, drinking cheap beer, and taking road trips in his sexy, red Buick convertible.
The funniest thing he ever told me is that a group of his best high-school buddies went on a camping trip to the Grand Canyon, and at the last minute he wasn’t allowed to go along with them. I can’t remember why, but they ran out of water somehow on their multi-day hike, so they were cotton-mouthed and pissing sludge by the time they were “rescued” days later. Pete told me that he was green with envy, because they had gone through such an adventure together and he had missed out on the experience. At age 20, this sentiment struck me as crazy, because as much as I loved camping, I liked my adventures tame. (Probably why we never made it as a couple.) Now that I think about it, it seems less shocking that he would die in some bizarre way--washed off a boat in an oriental sea. I’m not going to say that he would have wanted it that way--he wouldn’t have. He would have wanted to live to tell the story.
I’m afraid to go to his memorial service, afraid because I have this sinking feeling that Pete will pull a Tom Sawyer on us and show up, smiling his funny smile and only half aware that everyone assembled is grieving the loss of him. And we would all be angry and happy and furious for the worry that he had caused. And I can’t bear the thought of him getting into so much trouble for just being his adventurous, carefree self. Or, maybe what I’m really afraid of is that we’ll all show up secretly hoping for his miraculous return, only to feel like tragic fools when we realize that such an appearance is a fantasy and he really is gone.
A mutual friend said to me, “We loved him best.” It’s true. We loved him at that delicate and beautiful age when we were just discovering our adult selves and our place in the world and you could first see the basic shape of our lives forming.
Rest in peace, sweet friend.
Peter Vlach (March 26, 1976 - July 24, 2006)
Pete when I knew him
[Both images from his memorial website]
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Park-pourri
What a lazy day. I got lost in winding paths of Central Park, found myself but got lost again in the Natural History Museum’s minerals and meteors galleries, napped in the dappled sunlight that peaked through the tall trees, eavesdropped on gossiping picnickers, wrote a letter, caught up on some phone calls, and finally walked back through the park past the carousel, the large central fountain, giggling playgrounds, a disco roller skating contest, and a Dominican pride parade. My favorite part (besides the nap) was this 34-ton meteorite in the basement of the museum. I get scared about how small I am when I touch things from outer space.
Children blur past this retired giant
Worthless sparkling rock
Children blur past this retired giant
Worthless sparkling rock
Saturday, August 12, 2006
What’s All the Stink About?
Today, in hot pursuit of a journalism goldmine, I went to the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens in order to smell the Amorphophallus titanium, a.k.a. corpse flower. A corpse flower is a unique flowering plant from Sumatra that blossoms only once every few to ten years with a single giant flower that can be three to seven feet tall and three feet wide. Size isn’t this bud’s only talent. It also stinks of dead meat. This enticing quote from the garden’s website says it all: “Notable not only for the stature of its bloom, the well-named corpse flower also produces a revolting stench of putrefaction.”
I thought this would be an excellent opportunity to get some good tape for my radio show of crowds of people groaning from the stench and botanists speechifying about how glorious this stinker is. Sadly, I was a day late and an odor short of a great radio story. The corpse flower only reeked for 8 hours and I missed the window by an entire day. Who’d have thought that such a veggie beastie would be so shy? No worries, because the flower was still impressive in height, though not all stinky. Check out the pics:
Me and “Baby” the corpse flower
Close up of “Baby”
Water lilies looking
Children feeding the unruly horde of killer koi
I thought this would be an excellent opportunity to get some good tape for my radio show of crowds of people groaning from the stench and botanists speechifying about how glorious this stinker is. Sadly, I was a day late and an odor short of a great radio story. The corpse flower only reeked for 8 hours and I missed the window by an entire day. Who’d have thought that such a veggie beastie would be so shy? No worries, because the flower was still impressive in height, though not all stinky. Check out the pics:
Me and “Baby” the corpse flower
Close up of “Baby”
Water lilies looking
Children feeding the unruly horde of killer koi
“The Man” Is Conned (with My Assistance)
Wow, this happened to me the other day, and I’ve been trying to figure it out for weeks: I was trying to fill my subway (MetroCard) at a vending machine. I couldn’t get it to work. This guy says, “Hey I’ll swipe you and you can pay me back.” The train was coming, so I felt this pressing need to make a decision (my Achilles heel). I knew to be suspicious of someone in New York trying to be friendly, but I had the correct change in my hand and thought, “Why not?” He swiped me in on his card, I gave him $2 and we were both on our way. Nothing came of it, but I just knew he was making money off of someone. I just couldn’t figure out what. Had I narrowly escaped victimization? Has he found a way to make a couple of bucks off the system? Or, was he just a nice guy? Unlikely.
But I finally discovered what the scam was! In a search for MetroCard prices on the internet, I found the following description of a scam, and bingo it matches my experience exactly. Fortunately, I was not victimized. For some reason though, I find it hilarious to be called a “mark.” I suppose in other circumstances I would not feel that way.
from Wikipedia:
“The MetroCard system is susceptible to various types of frauds, perpetrated by clever con artists, who have figured out how to get the turnstile to release without charging a fare.
A typical con involves deliberately jamming a MetroCard vending machine in a station, and then waiting for somebody to try buying a new card just as a train is approaching. As the innocent customer discovers that the machine is broken, the con artist offers to swipe the mark through the turnstile on their own card in return for $2 (the same as the regular fare). If the mark accepts, the con artist swipes their altered card, and lets the mark go through the turnstile. The mark comes out even (they lost $2 but got a ride out of it), the con artist makes $2, and the MTA is stiffed a fare (plus the cost of fixing the damaged vending machine). This scam is often run by a team of 2 or more people, with one person working the turnstile and the others acting as lookouts.
There are reports of people making $200-$300/day running this scam. A report from New York State Senator Martin J. Golden claims this scam is costing the MTA $260,000/year, and some con artists are making up to $800/day executing it.”
[Image from: http://www.sheilacallaghan.com/images/metrocard.jpg]
But I finally discovered what the scam was! In a search for MetroCard prices on the internet, I found the following description of a scam, and bingo it matches my experience exactly. Fortunately, I was not victimized. For some reason though, I find it hilarious to be called a “mark.” I suppose in other circumstances I would not feel that way.
from Wikipedia:
“The MetroCard system is susceptible to various types of frauds, perpetrated by clever con artists, who have figured out how to get the turnstile to release without charging a fare.
A typical con involves deliberately jamming a MetroCard vending machine in a station, and then waiting for somebody to try buying a new card just as a train is approaching. As the innocent customer discovers that the machine is broken, the con artist offers to swipe the mark through the turnstile on their own card in return for $2 (the same as the regular fare). If the mark accepts, the con artist swipes their altered card, and lets the mark go through the turnstile. The mark comes out even (they lost $2 but got a ride out of it), the con artist makes $2, and the MTA is stiffed a fare (plus the cost of fixing the damaged vending machine). This scam is often run by a team of 2 or more people, with one person working the turnstile and the others acting as lookouts.
There are reports of people making $200-$300/day running this scam. A report from New York State Senator Martin J. Golden claims this scam is costing the MTA $260,000/year, and some con artists are making up to $800/day executing it.”
[Image from: http://www.sheilacallaghan.com/images/metrocard.jpg]
Friday, August 11, 2006
Frank Lloyd--Right On!
I finally went to some art museums today. It was simultaneously lovely and overwhelming. I saw a terrific show of Klimt and Schiele at the Neue Gallery. It was fun, because I went alone and got to see every single piece and listen to every single segment on the audio tour without anyone being impatient or not understanding my need for compulsive thoroughness.
I also heard a lot of people talking loudly and stupidly about the art. I don’t have a problem with people having little art history education--in fact, I laud them for going to museums anyway to absorb a little culture. And, I also think that people should not be afraid of forming their own, even naïve, opinions about art--that’s what it’s there for: interpretation. However, I really don’t want to hear the bull when I don’t know you from Adam. It was pretty annoying to hear these uncouth loudmouths trying to sound smart and critical, professing in stentorian voices to their timid wives or friends on subjects they clearly knew nothing about. What happened to the rule about using your “gallery voice”--didn’t their mother teach them anything? Anyway, it didn’t get better at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, even though that museum is one thousand times larger with more rooms to hide from the yahoos.
After the tiny, manageable Neue Gallery, the Met’s gargantuan-ness rendered me speechless. I spent the first 30 minutes in a confused panic. “What should I see today? How the heck do I get there? How can I possibly cram 12 more trips here before the end of the summer? Oh my god, I haven’t even considered the Guggenheim, the MOMA, and the Brooklyn Museum of Art. I’m screwed!” In the end, I tried to find the modern art section, got lost in the British fashion exhibit, found refuge on the rooftop garden, and gave up and had dinner in the shi-shi café. After gathering my wits over a bowl of pesto pasta and glass of sparkly water (feeling particularly fancy), I decided to take a guided tour. A lovely college intern raced us around in a whirlwind tour of about 8 eras and cultures, which helped me form a plan of attack for next time: scrap the Egyptians and Greeks, go straight for the Moderns, and try to find some Dutch masters. If I stumble upon the Japanese or Russian section, it will just be icing on the cake.
I love traveling alone sometimes. Don’t get me wrong. I also enjoy a terrific travel buddy, but there are some very delicious things that happen when you are a solo tourist. It’s just so quiet and self reflective and you get to indulge yourself in every decision. Perhaps it’s from growing up in a family of five children, but I like getting my way and getting to eat whatever is on my plate.
A couple favorites
I also heard a lot of people talking loudly and stupidly about the art. I don’t have a problem with people having little art history education--in fact, I laud them for going to museums anyway to absorb a little culture. And, I also think that people should not be afraid of forming their own, even naïve, opinions about art--that’s what it’s there for: interpretation. However, I really don’t want to hear the bull when I don’t know you from Adam. It was pretty annoying to hear these uncouth loudmouths trying to sound smart and critical, professing in stentorian voices to their timid wives or friends on subjects they clearly knew nothing about. What happened to the rule about using your “gallery voice”--didn’t their mother teach them anything? Anyway, it didn’t get better at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, even though that museum is one thousand times larger with more rooms to hide from the yahoos.
After the tiny, manageable Neue Gallery, the Met’s gargantuan-ness rendered me speechless. I spent the first 30 minutes in a confused panic. “What should I see today? How the heck do I get there? How can I possibly cram 12 more trips here before the end of the summer? Oh my god, I haven’t even considered the Guggenheim, the MOMA, and the Brooklyn Museum of Art. I’m screwed!” In the end, I tried to find the modern art section, got lost in the British fashion exhibit, found refuge on the rooftop garden, and gave up and had dinner in the shi-shi café. After gathering my wits over a bowl of pesto pasta and glass of sparkly water (feeling particularly fancy), I decided to take a guided tour. A lovely college intern raced us around in a whirlwind tour of about 8 eras and cultures, which helped me form a plan of attack for next time: scrap the Egyptians and Greeks, go straight for the Moderns, and try to find some Dutch masters. If I stumble upon the Japanese or Russian section, it will just be icing on the cake.
I love traveling alone sometimes. Don’t get me wrong. I also enjoy a terrific travel buddy, but there are some very delicious things that happen when you are a solo tourist. It’s just so quiet and self reflective and you get to indulge yourself in every decision. Perhaps it’s from growing up in a family of five children, but I like getting my way and getting to eat whatever is on my plate.
A couple favorites
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
I Might As Well Still Be in 9th Grade
I just reconnected with an old friend who I have known for 15 years. It’s funny how much you don’t change at all. He and I still have much of the same things in common--a thirst for world travel, a love of learning foreign languages, and a passionate distaste for George Bush (only now it’s the younger one). How much of our kindred tastes result because we grew up together and influenced one another to become the people we are today? Or, were we originally drawn to one another because of our shared interests? We’ll never know, but it’s nice to have a good friend in New York, none the less.
Serendipitous view of the Empire State Building from a park bench
(Sadly, my camera phone sucks.)
Serendipitous view of the Empire State Building from a park bench
(Sadly, my camera phone sucks.)
Personal Worst
Ug. I just got my results for the triathlon. I didn’t even break the 2 hour mark!! That is really bad (for me). Here are my stats:
Overall Rank 1702 of 1981
Swim 0:15:03
Swim Rank 905
Trans1 0:11:23
Bike 0:50:53
Bike Rank 1263
MPH 214.6
Trans 0:03:01
Run 0:43:11
Run Rank 1880
Pace 0:15:25
Final 2:03:32
Why oh why did I dawdle at the first transition?! I seem to remember having to switch out my minidisks, but really, I could have done better than 11 min and 23 seconds! A little hustle could have saved me from this shame. Woe is me. Slow is me!
Okay, enough of the self pity. I am pleased with my swim and bike times. I don’t have all of my previous years’ race data in front of me, but I think that this is my personal best on the swim by 28 seconds. Woohoo!
Liz and Kate rockin’ the swim start
Overall Rank 1702 of 1981
Swim 0:15:03
Swim Rank 905
Trans1 0:11:23
Bike 0:50:53
Bike Rank 1263
MPH 214.6
Trans 0:03:01
Run 0:43:11
Run Rank 1880
Pace 0:15:25
Final 2:03:32
Why oh why did I dawdle at the first transition?! I seem to remember having to switch out my minidisks, but really, I could have done better than 11 min and 23 seconds! A little hustle could have saved me from this shame. Woe is me. Slow is me!
Okay, enough of the self pity. I am pleased with my swim and bike times. I don’t have all of my previous years’ race data in front of me, but I think that this is my personal best on the swim by 28 seconds. Woohoo!
Liz and Kate rockin’ the swim start
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