7" of Separation

I threw pillows. I believe I scared ellyn a little.

My favorite part about it all? We did it on national television With lots of hype.

We fell apart like a bunch of little league hacks.

And everyone saw.

Once again the Pac-10 is USC and a bunch of mediocre teams.

And the state of Washington.

At least I'm not in Oregon to hear about it.

All day. Pumped for the Civil War.

It's tomorrow.

Bummer.

Well, it feels like a holiday.

As I stepped out onto the street tonight, on a last minute trip to the grocery store for ellyn and a wine-finding mission of my own devices, the mood was just different, warmer on an interpersonal level.

In the crowded grocery store, I found the veggies ellyn needed, grabbed some Pineapple — something my Mom always has around at the holidays for some reason — and a few limes. On my way out a sweet, middle-aged woman bumped into me.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said, putting a hand on my shoulder.

"Please, don't worry about it," I said. "You know, I think that's the first sincere sorry-for-a-bump-in I've heard since I moved here."

She laughed and agreed. I left her with a "Have a Happy Thanksgiving and she smiled and returned the notion.

Warmer, on an interpersonal level.

But, they probably traded Zach Randolph to the L.A. Clippers for other reasons than my vindictive rambling.

However, I'm okay with being a Knicks fan now.

Plus, they were shamed pretty severely by LeBron and the Caves tonight, so it makes me feel like more of a fan.

And, Zach Randolph has to move to L.A. To play for the Clippers. The Clippers. You know, that other team from L.A. The 2-12 Clippers. Good luck, buddy.

It's been a long time in the works — two months — but I finally have my newest blog up and running.

Called InsertCulture, I'm aiming to mold the site into a arts and culture magazine, but you have to start small.

Right now, my buddy Dan has joined me to do some writing, and I'm sure many of my friends will start getting annoying emails from me soliciting them to contribute, as well.

Obviously, if you have anything you have ever written or created, I'd love to feature it in a post.

In the meantime, check out the very young blog and tell your friends.

Over the last couple of months, I've been teaching myself php and the ins-and-outs of Wordpress to get this all going. Last night I had a coding breakthrough it it all started to come together quite quickly.

Anyway, check it out, let me know what you think.

Like most New Yorkers, I send my laundry out. Just across the street there is a little Latin laundry, where a sweet, quiet woman takes my laundry from me once a week and returns it folded better than anything I've ever seen. I used to do my laundry myself, but it's only two dollars more to send it out and I don't lose three hours of my day.

Ever since I've been going to this particular laundry, the sweet little lady can never understand my name when she asks it. She just writes down her best guess. For five months now, I'm Henry at the laundry. I don't mind, and it makes no difference.

But this morning, I had the chance to correct the problem. I think she always knows my name isn't Henry, mostly due to the fact that I often just shrug and say 'Sure' when she writes my name down. This morning, she let me write it down.

And what did I write?

Henry.

I didn't want to hurt her feelings. She is pregnant after all.

If life were a sitcom, some complex story arc would lead to a serendipitous and hilarious result involving this woman and my name confusion. Perhaps the police would be involved. Or ellyn. Or even a hitman, if it were a John Cusack rom-com. Or Romulans, if it were Star Trek.

In the end, though, I think I'll just pick up my nicely folded laundry, no problems.

When you work as a blogger, blogging for personal reasons is a really great procrastination method.

It's 34 degrees outside today.

Accuweahter tells me it feels like 27.

It actually feels like the Ice Planet Hoth. Not even the warm intestines of a Tauntaun are enough on a day like today.

And, seeing that my landlord thinks heating a building involves three short blasts from the furnace over a period of 12 hours, the Diet Coke I've been drinking for two hours now is still ice cold. Benefits.

I'm not.

Really.

And as long as Zach Randolph is in blue and orange, I won't be a fan. That's right, I'm such a true Blazers fan that I'm spiteful against the Knicks for the sole reason that Randolph was the worst thing to ever happen to the Rose City. Ever. (Save perhaps the treatment of the Japanese during WWII.)

Anyway, now, I watch anywhere from one to three Knicks games a week as part of my job at the paper. Tonight they are playing Boston. It just so happens Boston beat the Lakers last year in the finals and now they are killing the Knicks. So far, Boston is the spiteful Blazer fan's best friend. Thank you Celtics. Thank you.

They might be growing on me. But I'm no fan.

Nate Robinson is impressive.

…

The other night, about a week ago, I was finishing up my weekly coffee with my friend Josh and I had about an hour to kill before work. I was on Fourth St. in the city and the paper is up on 34th St. The night was nice, I had my iPod and I needed some exercise, so I decided to walk the 30 blocks uptown. It was going very nicely, as I had a new This American Life to listen to and I was enjoying myself and taking in the city on a rare, bearable Autumn evening.

It was at about 25th or 26th St. where the bum enters the story. Now I had a friend in college who gave me a hard time about calling the homeless "bums." But here in New York, there are so many different types of homeless, you have to categorize them somehow and in this case, the fellow I'm going to introduce you to was, indeed, a bum.

He approached me as I was waiting for a light to change and motioned for me to take out my earphones. I obliged only because there was no way to avoid it. Rule No. 1 for New York street people: DO Not engage!

Anyway, as the earphones popped out, this is what I head:

I thought Rappin' Jay was pretty cleaver, and after being constantly affronted for my pocket lint, I thought him giving me a little rap was worth something in exchange. Into my pocket I went. His eyes got excited. Shoot, no change. Well, a bill, then. I reached for my money clip and only found $20. No good. Not for a rap. And, certainly, I didn't want whatever he would offer for $20.

"Sorry Rappin' Jay, I only have a 20," I told him. At first, he was relaxed about it, telling me that was okay and turning to walk away.

Then no. He rapped for me. He should get something.

"Well, go in this store here, right here, and cash it. Change it out, they'll do that.," he motioned toward a store.

"No, I won't cash it," I told him. "But, I can get you some dinner. What do you want, I'll go in and get you anything you want to eat and drink." (This always worked wonders in Portland, save one angry drunk on 23rd one time.)

But Rappin' Jay was having none of it. He wasn't interested in dinner apparently.

"Well fine. I knew you would be a faggot. Faggot! I should just take it from you, you fago…" I put my headphone back on and walked away. Jay muttered to himself a little longer and then went off to rap to some other mark.

And thus, another nice evening out in NYC. Luckily, Josh and I had been talking about guy stuff and I was feeling like a man. So the whole homosexual slur part didn't get to me.

Stay classy Rappin' Jay.

…
Okay, the Knicks are about to be done losing. Work to do.

Please view 7″ of Separation at its new home.

Now that winter is settling in, the weather here is crisp, clear and cold for four or five days a week, with cloudy, rainy weather moving in for a day or two — its like a cycle. I always feel best when the rain comes, but I'm enjoying morning walks around my neighborhood in the cool sun. My work schedule is normalizing, with night shifts covering the late sports games for the paper, afternoons blogging for a couple of sites and a couple of day shifts at the paper here and there for flavor. With another recent blog contract, I believe I've entered near stability and can officially call myself a freelance writer and mean it. Anyway, while not swimming in piles of gold coins, the important stuff is paid for and I've come to enjoy some of the simple pleasures in life. Coffee shop coffee and the weekly breakfast date ellyn and I keep being my top two simple pleasures. Also, morning strolls through the neighborhood. (Remind me to blog about my neighborhood a little more. Maybe take some pictures.) Turns out I like mornings, as long as they start at 10 a.m.

The late schedule at the paper is nice; as is a paycheck for watching sports. I enjoy not feeling guilty about sleeping in a bit. But I particularly enjoy the commute most of the time. The paper is near Penn Station on 34th Street and I walk by Madison Square Garden and the New Yorker Hotel and can see the Empire State Building all lit up at night. When my pages are to bed, it's usually 12:30 or 1 a.m. and the city is quiet and I can listen to a This American Life or Cat Power and its just me on these towering yet empty Manhattan streets. It's a neat feeling.

Okay, third story. This is also about a walk. Sorry, my themes are a little repetitive.

Election Night 2008. From around 8 p.m. to the time Obama won at 11 o'clock and one second p.m., I was in Times Square, a hellish place where neon bulbs are only outnumbered by tourists. However, while I normally hate Times Square, I found spending election night there to be a pretty wonderful start to the night. Without being political, I'd like to tell you a little about it.

I was gathering quotes for the paper. (The lowly reaction quotes assignment.) I talked to a number of random folks from all over the world. The crowd was mostly Obama supporters, but the McCain faithful were around, as well.

"If you these people think Bush was bad, just wait for what Obama does," a middle-aged Hasidic fellow told me. He was lightheartedly fighting with his brother, an Obama man, when I first approached. Most the other quotes were lackluster shouting from rabid Obama supporters. But, when he won, they got pretty good.

Well, after standing and chatting for about three hours, the polls on the West Coast closed and the news finally called it for Obama. The moment I won't soon forget. The crowd cheered, some let bundles of balloons go. A gang of teens climbed a row of phone booths and danced. Nine people hugged me unsolicited. People ran into the streets crying.

A black man standing next to me took his cell phone out and I asked him who he was calling. "My wife," he said. "Honey, he won. This is better than the damn walk on the moon for America." Such pride and hope in his voice, he looked at a towering screen flashing "Obama Wins" and teared up a little.

Quotes attained and the scene colored for my editor, I hopped on the subway to meet ellyn at her school's election night party. This should not come as a shock, but young, liberal college students were… excited.

After the party ended, a group of us walked to the subway in Union Square, just to see what the fuss was all about. In a sea of people, there was rejoicing. I've never seen real rejoicing. Not like this. This was Biblical rejoicing. Bang-on-the-pots-and-pans-(literally)-World-War-II-V-day rejoicing-in-the-streets rejoicing. No matter the politics of the situation. To see a crowed of such mixed heritage, all crammed together, singing "America the Beautiful" in unison as someone climbs a nearby statue to wave the American flag — It gave me goosebumps.

After the singalong, we escaped over to Brooklyn where a local intersection was shutdown with hipsters dancing in the streets. A detail of police in riot gear watched from down the street. There was no clash, though. Only dancing.

I'm sure a lot of people weren't dancing in the streets over Obama. But, like I said, leaving politics aside, to watch that history happen as if it were archival footage, that was pretty amazing.

…

Okay, enough about experiential feelings and walking.

ellyn and I will be heading home to Oregon from Dec. 22 through Jan. 12 or something like that. I think. Check back for updates.