Work has been sucking me dry, like a leech that's gotten a little too greedy. Instead of active writing and editing, I've fallen into a pattern of mindless surfing in my off-hours. Which is almost as bad as developing an "American Idol" habit. But here is a bit I had been working on, and have finally hammered into shape of sorts. This essay is like an old Toyota Tercel parked on your neighbor's lawn, patched with copious body putty adequately sanded and not yet painted.

A place to work

I guess over the years, I’ve had a lot of workplaces. Didn’t really consider them more than a place to park my ass and get something done. Early on in the post-college work life, the company I was working for moved, and I had my first opportunity to consider how space affects your job, and your relationship to it and your co-workers. My first job was at a small radio trade magazine deep in the South Jersey pines. Decades previously, people built cabins there to serve as summer getaways from nearby Philadelphia. We were situated in one such cabin, a space that was bursting at the log-seams with people, piles of CDs, cassettes and albums, and gold record plaques. Passersby would regularly walk in and ask if this was a record store, an interesting theory, given that there was no signage indicating a retail establishment, and that we were hunched over our desks at all times of day and night. Being seated near the front door, I would usually be the recipient for these inquiries. I would bark out an answer and dive back under my shoulder length hair and press on doing whatever I was doing: taking radio reports, inputting the data, listening to piles of mediocre alternative-rock releases, or cranking out reviews of said albums.

Despite the extreme work load and the stress that accompanies working 50 hours in a four-day week, we had enormous fun. I never laughed so hard and as a result cut my teeth on bawdy humor common to the radio DJ breed. We fostered our in-house gallows humor throughout the 4 a.m. deadlines and everything you needed to do to put together a weekly magazine yourself. This was early in the days of do-it-yourself computer page layouts, and we still would place the pages on the boards, using a wax machine and a roller, and would call in ad changes to our print house. One oft-repeated crack was that we would dive into our own cones of silence, under giant headphones. At mealtimes, “Whatcha eating?” was a common refrain.

Then we moved. The owner and his wife bought an old furniture store down the street, a mammoth edifice that would give everybody their own office space (picture the “themed” rooms so common in furniture stores), so we wouldn’t be breathing down each other’s necks.

However, this move was a decision that was the beginning of a long decline for the magazine. The largeness and darkness of the space dissipated all our energy and took us away from each other. I couldn’t just make some asinine crack to Chris or gesticulate to Fred when the jackass from Geffen was calling again about his chart position. It felt very quiet and not so rock and roll “cabin fever” anymore. I already had one foot and a couple toes out the door, plotting my inevitable move to NYC, and dealing with my mother’s worsening cancer kept me away for months at a time. My section editor left, and I just didn’t click with his replacement, who was commuting down from Forest Hills. My roommates (both of whom worked there, too) and I weren’t spending as much time together as we used to, and I was ready for a new job.

So now I feel a certain analog with the new gig. We had been jammed into a very cramped midtown apartment/office, just substitute jerseys for music. I sat cheek to elbow with my co-workers and there was an immense sense of camaraderie. We would crack brews on Friday, and listen to loud rock. But, like an adolescent snake busting out of its skin, we needed a change. After a close to a year of planning and renovations, we moved to East Williamsburg on a warm Saturday morning in April. Watching the movers deposit so many boxes into the building was a sobering realization how much there was to be done. First came setting up and troubleshooting (of which there was a lot) all the main systems. Now we’re onto more thorough organizing, sorting through and inventorying boxes of old clothing and filing reams of paperwork from months past.

It is still too early to render judgment on the new loft-like space, a former restaurant. Sure, there is lot of space, but there is also bad acoustics and lack of storage. However, I feel privileged to be there to help mold this new environment, making it a comfortable place to get things done. I will let you know how that's proceeding.

Summer has made a sneak preview in the Northeast. Eighties and sunny today and tomorrow. For the moment, everyone welcomes the heat, and suspends the usual complaints. For me, it meant baring the arms and legs, applying much sunscreen, and giddily anticipating being caked in dried sweat. Of course, a warm day meant the roads and bridges were thick with two-wheeled bozos. There were cyclists everywhere! One tri group was ahead of us on the city-side ramp of the GWB and two of their riders were *walking* their bikes up the ramp, clogging traffic in both directions.

R. and I cruised up to the Orchards, and arrived only minutes before the SIG. I asked a woman with her name stickered to her helmet while on line at the register, "Which SIG?" "A." "Classic or 19?" "Classic," she answered with a bit of a harumph. R and I ate, and swooped down South Mountain Road. My favorite part of riding to the Orchard is the vista from the top of the climb, looking over the blossoming trees, east toward the quarry and the surrounding ridge. By the time we hit State Line and the roller, we were both toasty and hopped on the wheels of some Pacifico guys (I asked if it was ok, being the polite one). No matter how tired I am, I can almost always dredge up some energy to ride faster if it means, A. getting some draft, and B. getting home a few minutes sooner.

As we approached the bridge, we saw a small white bus with dark smoke and flames dancing from the hood. Oh my, I hadn't seen a vehicle on fire on the GWB before. (Tangent: when my family and I were driving to NJ, to drop me off for my post-college life in the summer of '88, we saw a huge UPS truck aflame on the Turnpike; it seemed portentous in regard to my decision to come east.) It must have just started, as the passengers were still walking quickly away from the bus, and the emergency vehicles were just blitzing their way through the traffic. In fact, two friends who crossed the bridge only a few minutes ahead of us didn't see anything amiss.

Food highlight of the week: Dinner at Little Pepper with El Jefe and the usual suspects. Lamb with cumin, pork with three mushrooms, Tea smoked duck. Despite the fact that the place smelled like cat pee, it was totally worth the annoying hourlong train ride from Brooklyn.

Video highlight of the week: This clip contains flame throwers, Jell-O, cheerleaders, but not all at the same time.

Here is a sample of my photo-taking excursion to the Brooklyn Botanical Garden a couple weeks ago. I have been trying to post them to FB, but the site's been a little recalcitrant in uploading my pix. I was playing with my new 28-135 lens, and the verdict is, it rocks!

Apologies to NY Velocity for "borrowing" this.

I knew that Stanard Ridgway was booked to play NYC months ago, but plumb forgot until I saw the listing in last Friday's Times. Ack! After work, I had a quick bite of squid kim-bob at E-mo, and walked all the way to Canal and West Broadway in the mist and light rain. (Maybe I was prepping for the $2.50 fare hike, which seems all but certain, but I digress.)

I didn't take notes for an actual professional-type review (old habits lingering), but I can say that it was a mighty fine show. The Canal Room was much better suited to his smallish audience—80 people max, based on my highly accurate head count—and allowed for more intimacy than was possible at the too-big Highline Ballroom. But it cut both ways: Stan had to put up with some over-adoring fans, one of whom walked up to him only a few songs into the set and handed him a Mary-Jane ciggy. Later, he tossed it to someone in the front row in a faux-panic when the sound of a passing police siren seeped through the walls. Then there was the annoying pair of women at the end of the bar, both of whom had diarhhea of the mouth and couldn't shut the fuck up between songs.

The highlight of the show was "I Wanna Be a Boss," certainly one of my all-time favorite songs of his. He dug out a lot of vintage solo songs, including a solo acoustic guitar "Overlords," "The Big Heat," and "Can't Stop the Show," as well as the usual Wall of Voodoo standards and things he's done with Drywall and Piextra Wexstun, such as "Police Call." Seeing him play let me hear stuff played in a new context, such as a Tex-Mex version of "Mexican Radio." I even appreciated the Drywall songs, which I have never been too keen on. I almost wish that I lived in the L.A. area, so I could see him play out more regularly, but waiting the 18 months between shows makes seeing his show that more delectable.

Anyway, I gotta be up early tomorrow for the club race, so off to the showers and bed.

I promised myself that I would not write about the new job for at least six months. Well, it's now been half a year since I returned to the realm of 9-to-5. I did not seek out this gig; rather it came my way, and taking it seemed like one of those "no duh" decisions. After a few years of cobbling together massage jobs, and having far too much time on my hands, I realized that having a steady workload would be a relief. There were days during which I would be running back and forth between job sites, from lower Manhattan to midtown and back home. It was draining and always subject to last-minute schedule changes, and I was barely making ends meet. Plus, my health insurance was going to be ending once the divorce was finalized, and it seemed foolhardy at my age (and the fact that yet another race season was going to roll around eventually) to let that lapse.

(At the beginning of 2008, I stated my intention to a few people that I wanted to find myself a new line of work. And lo and behold, it actually happened! As can be seen from my CV, my planning rarely works out so well. Usually things happen despite my intentions.)

And to that resume, I can now add the prestigious position of sales rep, hardly a position that I would have imagined for myself even a year ago, but here I am. "Sales" was something that I avoided, and my previous attempts to sell anything, whether it was Girl Scout cookies, magazine ads, or massages, have generally fallen flat. Are things any different now? I don't really "try" to sell, but just use all those communication skills forged from years in the editorial world: otherwise known as "keep it simple, stupid." I can type emails fast, that's for sure.

The pace is steady, insanely detail oriented, and more than occasionally frantic, but thankfully I don't log the volume of hours put in during those relentless weekly magazine closings. The workload feels relatively luxurious when I think about my first job after college at the drafty log cabin in South Jersey (followed by the former furniture store down the street). The atmosphere here is similar, with a handful of us in a bullpen environment, close enough to each other that I could eat my co-worker's lunch. And if somebody gets sick, then you better hope that your immune system is robust.

What I appreciate in this job is the expectation that I need to think on my feet, to make decisions for my customers, to take the initiative to keep the office organized and humming, and having backup in the event that something goes pear-shaped. (Which never happens, you know?) And this entry would not be complete without a note of affection for my fellow-officemates. We serve as sounding boards for one another and entertain ourselves to no end.

Of course, there are aspects that could stand improvement, but at the moment, I am happy to have a job when everything in the economy is spiralling down the crapper. Add in the fact that so much else in my life is on the rocks right now, I am just revelling in my newfound ability to go somewhere every day and get paid, and feel a modicum of satisfaction.

And, on a completely different note, it's the first day of the WFMU fund-raising marathon! Please give whatever you can to help out the station. Even if you don't listen!

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I spent the tenth anniversary of Dad's passing at work, writing and sending emails, packing up jerseys, funneling orders in and out, taking calls--the usual rigamarole of a workday. Occasionally, my mind darted to the significance of the day, yesterday, but the everyday jibber jabber with customers felt so remote from what I went through at that time.

I was not with Dad when he finally died. He had been diagnosed with a brain tumor about 18 months before, and had been doing pretty well, but things really went downhill after he fell and hit his head in his house outside Seattle. Soon thereafter, he was in hospice and rapidly lost consciousness. I was there for a few days, but instead of keeping vigil, I flew to Southern California to ride my bike.

This was outside San Diego, near where the Tour of California held its final stage this past Sunday. As I watched the riders climb Mount Palomar, I recalled my own rides in the area, and tangentially the emotional difficulty and guilt of not being in Washington with my family for a week. But I simply felt the need to start distancing myself from all the building grief of the past 18 months, and bicycling is one of the few ways I can simultaneously get out of my head, and achieve some sort of catharsis/zen. Or you could argue that I was being a stubborn, selfish asshole.

I ended up having leave California a day early to fly back to Seattle for the funeral. Right now, recalling these events seems like something experienced by somebody else. I remember being at the hotel with my husband, driving to the cemetery in the rain, jumping at the 21 gun salute, all capped off by the usual dreary Seattle February weather. I have since blocked much of it out of my daily functioning. I have realized that I think far more frequently of my mother and all the events surrounding her illness and death and the aftermath, and she died almost 17 years ago.

Yesterday was also Fat Tuesday, the biggest party day in New Orleans, the city where Dad grew up. He never spoke with the stereotypical NoLa drawl, in the way that his mother, my grandmother, and her sister, my great-aunt, spoke. It never even occurred to me till adulthood that Dad had completely divorced himself from that New Orleans lilt. He joined the Air Force at age 20, and from what I have gathered, never really liked the city, and so got out as soon as possible. On the other hand, I have quite a bit of affection for that city, given that I traveled there regularly as a child and adult, was married there, and watched the city get deluged on the TV.

None of my family lives there any longer (ML died in 1999; her sister a few years later), but I still feel enough connection to New Orleans to want to go back and see the old sights: my grandmother's house on Jeff Davis Parkway, the former Blue Plate factory nearby, the French Quarter, the lazy Mississippi. But then I consider whether I should harbor such romantic feelings for New Orleans; heck, Dad lived there and he managed to not think so fondly of it. I imagine his growing up, being raised by his own grandmother, being surrounded by a houseful of strong-willed Southern women, wanting to go out west to Colorado or California. He never did like cities, and I imagine growing up in New Orleans was crucial informing reason for this. His distaste of urban dwelling affected me in that I simply adore living in the city, specifically the biggest, dirtiest, scariest city around.

So there you go, Dad.

Too bad Swish is closed for renovations. Feh. I wanted my usual bento box (Japanese for a lot of food, right?), to reward myself for my first full weekend of riding in an embarrassingly long period.

I knew today's ride was to be a slow one, given that I've been sick all week (exacerbated by the fact that I kept going to work, which made getting better that much harder to swing). It was also a soggy and windy one: temps of 54 by 9 a.m. and the gusts were pushing even me around. Our little group splish-splashed our way over to Crusher, and through Nyack. I felt okay until I blew up on State Line. Having company made the swings between feeling wonderful and horrible much more bearable, and they never complained about how pokey I was, or how much snot was cascading from my nose. My bike was noisy by ride's end, that I thought I was being followed by another rider, but in fact it was my own squeaky pulley wheels doing their mating cry.

This is the cruelty of cycling. Cross train all you want: run, swim, hit the rowing machine, stand on the stair climber for an hour, lift big pieces of metal, and none of it is an acceptable substitute for riding your bicycle. Outside. Even the trainer can't match up. To be a good rider, you have to be out riding. All the gd time. Sometimes I hate that. Bicycling is a jealous sport.

I can only hope to claw back some semblance of fitness in the next month or so. And then I will have to ask myself whether I want to line up at Grant's Tomb and risk totally humiliating myself. At least at a club race, there are fewer people standing around, so you don't look as much as an ass if you get dropped. Oh well, what good is pride at this point? I should at least come out swinging.

I did make myself proud in that I hosed and washed off my very, very muddy bike before collapsing on the sofa. I also managed to wipe down the chain and scrub the rims. It almost sparkles! The only thing still grungy are the chainrings.

I leave you with a choice picture from last weekend's trip to the City of Brotherly Love. A word of caution: don't order matzoh brei at a diner. And don't ask the fish for a light.

Oops. My bad. I'm back.

Feh. Today's fishing excursion got the scrub. Not enough people showed up. We needed at least eight; there were only five and a half (as the captain put it). I was bummed out, as this was to be my very first time fishing. Not only was I going to have a super swank rod and reel, I was going to be decked out in M.'s Carharrt Extreme Arctic coverall and rubber boots. Kind of annoying, having to take the train to JC, drive out down to Point Pleasant, and sit on the boat, all for naught. As a consolation prize, M. and I had lunch at a seafood shack down the street. We shared a dozen oysters and I tucked into a lobster roll with slaw. Cripes, it's been years since I had oysters.

So I'm home, having not killed anybody on a side trip to Trader Joe's, and am now knocking around the house. I just watched the latest episode of "BSG" on hulu. "Nine to Five" is on tonight's movie viewing. At the moment, Danny Stiles's WNYC show is blasting on the radio. Lucy's sleeping on the table, and I hope she doesn't fall off. She needs to be combed.

And it looks like this weekend will be the third consecutive without any outdoor riding, given that it's already 22 and still descending. Right, the trainer, again!

I totally missed all the inauguration hoopla on Tuesday, but was privy to the virtual shutdown of the Intertubes in the 11 to 1 o'clock hours. When I was going to the gym for my midday hour of physical exertion, I noted a couple dozen people standing rapt in the Bank of America lobby, watching the inaugural address on the big screen.

The new job has been far too busy for me to pay much attention to the portion of the world that does not involve custom athletic apparel. Which is good, I like being up to my ears in work. My dreams have been rather vivid of late; I recall one involving lots of big hairy spiders (I have a terror of them) and last night's involved one of those school dreams, but in this one I got an F. Other stuff happened, too. I can't remember what.

Enjoy this animated video about one girl's impression of the "Star Wars" movies. The animation makes it work. From boing boing, as is this love note.

Happy Year of the Ox!

The aughts are entering their final go-round. And none too soon. Could '09 be worse than '08? Let's hope not. This decade has made me feel as if I am hunkered down in the bunker that is my UUUWS flat, waiting out the waning days of the Bush administration. Almost there.

I kicked off the year with a tall stack of pumpkin pancakes to feed myself and the Beatnik (I recommend increasing the milk or adding another egg). ZB is sick, holed up in Brooklyn, with a sore throat that he brought back from STL. The apartment now smells like burned butter and is filled with pancakey smoke. FMU is blasting from the dinky computer speakers, and it's 18 degrees with a typical brilliant blue winter sky. Not a bad way to start the year.

I have a long weekend in front of me, and since the conditions are not amenable to riding, I anticipate several trips to the gym. I expect to be working out alongside all the "resolution" sorts.

Last night's entertainment was initially to be a trek to Philly to see TMBG. Well, that really didn't work out. File that under "Seemed like a good idea at the time." When I looked at NJ Transit and SEPTA and bus schedules, as well as car rental and hotel prices, I realized that our options were pretty limited and none seemed conducive to a relaxing, fun-filled evening. Hmmmm, on second thought. Too bad, because that meant eating over $60 in tickets, and missing an opportunity to hang out with my old roomie.

Instead, the Beatnik and I tucked into supper at our favorite Italian spot, and braved the Times Square-bound crowds on a bitterly cold 8th Avenue to attend a very, very, very loud party held by my friend R.A. I sipped bourbon on ice and tried not to mind the drunk young 'uns barging about, snapping pictures of one another. Shortly after a cop let us through the subway gate at 50th Street, the Beatnik realized that she had left her phone at the party, and she went immediately into phone withdrawal. It's time to buy a new one anyway (later: the phone turned up later today, and she picked it up).

My new musical guilty pleasure: a cover of Olivia Newton John's "Magic" as played by the unwisely named Stimulator on the "Ella Enchanted" soundtrack. And of course, it's not available as a single track on iTunes or elsewhere. Irwin played it last week, and you can hear the entire song here.

It's fast approaching, this Christmas thing, and everyone's beating a hasty retreat out of town. Friends and fellow-New Yorkers are high-tailing it to family, or other high ground out in the hinterland. Tucson, Oregon, New Jersey, upstate New York, Texas, Thailand, St. Louis. However, I am here for the duration, and am feeling like I want to get the beejeebus out of Dodge. Exit stage right and all that. I would love to catch a bus to Stowe, curl up in front of a roaring hearth, and do some quality schussing downhill. Since Bend is too far for a quick weekend getaway.

The first snow of the season hit yesterday, and, well, it made me cranky. (And just in time for my last evening with ZB before he embarked on his cross-half-the-country drive to STL!) Perhaps because I wasn't dressed in seasonably appropriate attire. Perhaps because I was plain tired from a week full of after-school activities. The snowfall has rendered all my weekend riding plans moot, meaning I have a date with the gym today, and the trainer tomorrow. Add more crankiness.

After said workout, I walked around downtown and wove my way through the not-terribly-situationally aware crowds. If the economy is tanking, you'd never know it on Broadway. Or Spring Street. Or Union Square. I got a long overdue hair snipping with my Russian hair trimmer, bought a pound of Auggie's blend at Porto Rico, looked at cameras at Best Buy (I have my eye on a Canon PowerShot SD790 Digital Elph), and fought the urge to flee a jammed Filene's Basement, but prevailed and bought a couple pair of earrings.

Thankfully, I have two short work weeks ahead of me, all the better to accommodate a visit from the Beatnik, and to perhaps do some needed chores at home. I have been feeling a growing urge to purge my house of a lot of accumulated garbage, which has been filling the nooks and crannies of my closets and drawers, over the last seven years. Part of this includes a few boxes' worth of stuff that belongs to the EH. As someone who has a bit of an issue with letting go, I am trying to get to the point where I can force myself to park my ass and sift through the detritus of my physical life (perhaps in some ways addressing the emotional part).

Sorting through the emotional threads of my life is something I would like to spend some time here. There have been certain people who have expressed wonder at my openness in this online forum, and and others who have even advised me to not discuss certain topics. What good is a blog if I feel I can post only such breezily written lite subjects like: "OMG, fun bike ride today!" or "This is what I ate/drank/cooked today." This is my fault, and I shouldn't allow other people's hangups become my own.

I have been burning the candle at both ends. For several days. All in preparation for last night's holiday party extravaganza. Cooking, cleaning, shopping, decorating. As to be expected, the wick was going to run out. As my final act of energy utilization, I rode the bike for almost four hours. And now I will be pretty much useless for the rest of the day. (The party went swimmingly well, by the way!)

Until I can kick-start enough neurons to write complete sentences, please enjoy the following track ass-hattery from T-town a few years ago.

I am still wiped out from the ride and have nothing to say at the moment. It is taxing my remaining focus just to post this. It hits the tickle bone just right.



Thanks to JH.

I can't remember if I ever did venture to ask myself why I was on a 40-degree, wind and sleet-swept field this morning, stapling orange netting to fence posts, cutting yellow tape, searching for spray chalk marks on the ground with a headlamp. The easy answer was I was helping set up for the Staten Cross race.

This race was spearheaded by a small group of NYC guys who love cross. One of them is a friend, so when he put out the call for volunteers, I decided that I should do my part. Also partly because because I just can't say no. And cross is fun to watch. I hadn't seen a cross race since the last one in the five boroughs, back in 2001. That was at the Kissena "velodrome" before it was resurfaced.

But were we still in New York City? It's debatable whether S.I. is really part of New York. With the strip malls and car dealers, it felt more like New Jersey. Certainly getting there was no easy feat--I had to rouse myself at a repulsively early hour, even for those of us conditioned to 6 a.m. race starts. Wolfe's Pond Park is near the southern tip of S.I., and includes a beach and a bluff with impressive views of the Atlantic, battleship grey and heaving with swells. Not that I was able to appreciate much of that, in my frantic pre-dawn scrambling around, clutching armloads of "step-in" stakes and squinting into the frozen precip flying into my eyes.

Despite our tardy start in laying out the course, the races went off without a hitch. The turnout was respectable, with well over 100 preregistered racers. There were even at least 15 starters in the women's field, including teammate L.F. I stayed until a little after noon, just after the start of the women's race. I wanted to watch the gals finish, but didn't want to pass up a ride back into Manhattan. I was thoroughly chilled down to the marrow. And I wasn't even racing! Those who were actually out in the muck, finished caked in mud and grit, their faces a combination of grin and grimace. The reason you can race in those conditions, is because you're going so hard that you don't feel the cold until you stop. Those who had just finished, were a sight to behold--their warm bodies' billowing with steam in the steady rain.

It was difficult to spectate in those conditions. I was bundled up with wool and tights and several other toasty layers, all buried under a blue plastic poncho, and was still fighting a losing battle against hypothermia. This even after hiding under the tents, ducking into a couple warm cars, and jumping hither and thither. I guess I need to buy a pair of waterproof work boots and a heavy duty set of coveralls, which were the outerwear of choice for the NYCX organizers. Now I am gladly tucked into my overheated apartment, having taken possibly the hottest shower ever. And given that it is still raining steadily, I am relieved that I took care of all my outdoors errands yesterday, as there is no chance in H-E-double hockeysticks I am venturing outside until tomorrow. Even going to the basement for laundry duty feels arctic. Gaylord Fields and Monica Lynch are doing their part to warm the air, via the FMU airwaves.

And I have to say thanks to S. and G., who graciously invited me into their home on Thursday afternoon, for a Thanksgiving feast replete with children's squawks and squeals. Six adults, five kids ages 2 to 10. It was a rather rambunctious evening, but well appreciated in contrast to my solitary pre-turkey ride in the morning. My longtime friends J. and A. were there as well, with their little girl and a huge batch of cranberry sauce, which was so tart that the oldest boy said, "It's up against the wall!" That is the expression of the moment.

Today was a proper weekend day. Long ride in the morning, cooking frenzy in the afternoon.

Part one: Got up, brewed coffee, ate a big bowl of cereal, kitted up, kissed ZB goodbye. About ten people showed up for the latest edition of the Winter Pickup Ride (aka the Tour de Fendergal). We improvised a backroads route to West Nyack, past Lake DeForest, and made a quick coffee pitstop in Piermont. I am pleased with how the ride is turning out so far: a good mix of people, no drama, no yelling, no stupid shit (yet).

As far as the weather throwing a monkeywrench into my plans, I am hoping Mr. Snow Miser, Senor Invierno, will take his time setting up shop in these parts. Today was cloudy and blustery, with the passing front setting the stage for temps dropping from the 60s on Saturday into the 30s tonight. The aforementioned wind was pushing around smaller riders (but not me; that's one advantage to being, um, statuesque).

Part two: Dosed up on post-ride endorphins, lunch and a hot shower, I googled recipes for acorn squash. What popped up first was way too complicated for what I was contemplating. I didn't want to make soup, I didn't want something rich. Then I added "Mark Bittman" to the search, and immediately found a really delectable and simple recipe for roasted squash and pan-fried cod. A few hours later, the apartment was inundated with smoke from frying the fish, and I was patting my belly full of squash, fish, and brown rice. And all I used was salt, pepper and butter. Damn, cod is delish! Totally worth the ten bucks a pound. All hail the Minimalist!

From the time killers that is Metafilter Department: A bootlegged video for the new "Star Trek" movie trailer can be watched here. Rebooted sci-fi franchise: ok. Chance to watch Zach "Sylar" Quinto in pointy-ear makeup: impossible to pass up.

Bummer. I am almost through watching the first season of "Mad Men," and I have learned that the second season won't be on DVD until July. July?!?! Crappity crap crap.

Setting: elevator in my office building, end of the day
Players: One man, two women, myself

As we are descending, the second woman gets on, looks at the man and greets him.

Second woman: How are you?
Man: (pause) I wish you would stop asking that. (pause) It's not like you know who I am. (pause) Do you even care? (This is all said in a small, tight voice)
Second woman: I ask because you are on my floor. You've lost weight. I ask. (She keeps mumbling in a half-apologetic half-defiant tone, but just as small, considering that there are two onlookers behind them.)

He might have said something else, but I was kind of stunned by this exchange and didn't retain any more of his words. This incident serves as a coda to the post-election hangover, which had to follow that temporary giddiness toward our fellow man many of us were infused with. To accompany this scene, T.'s helmet was stolen at his gym, another friend had his briefcase nicked, and one of my neighbors decided that I didn't need my Wednesday paper. If it were any other day, not having my paper wouldn't be such a big deal, but considering that it was a sold-out edition and easily the most historic day in over seven years, I would have liked to have kept it.

Feh.

As the Beatnik pointed out, I awoke her from an almost-nap and gave her the big news just after all the networks called it. ZB was at a party on the Lower Upper West Side, so I had no one with whom to celebrate. The horns and whooping out on 125th Street gave no signs of abating around 1:00, when I finally turned in, my sleepiness assisted by a half bottle of Cotes du Rhone.

Voting was remarkable in that there were many, many people there who clearly had never voted previously, or who hadn't voted in several years. (One overheard exchange: "My girlfriend told me to come here." "Have you voted here?" "No." "Has she voted here?" "No.") The lobby had about 40 people on line (50 if you count poll workers, party onlookers and a cop). Still, the line moved quickly, and poll workers were cranky if mostly efficient. I was done in 20 minutes and still got to work on time. It was perfunctory--big red lever right, click a few smaller levers, big red lever left. There was none of that romantic blush that journalists and others try to give it to make you feel like it's more than the civic equivalent of flossing.

My lower back and QL are only now protesting the 9-plus hours spent on my feet on Thursday and Friday at the New York Marathon Expo. Yes, part of being a sales rep is talking up my company's products and services. Oh, really? I handed out brochures and smiled and made nice to the people. Not my strong suit. But I handled it the best I could, and rewarded myself with a big fat takeout dinner of salmon teriyaki bento box. Both ZB and I were feeling utterly wrung-out at week's end, so we stayed in like the antisocial jerks we are.

Highlight of the week from "The Daily Show": Jon Stewart's comparing the McCain/Larry King interview with the hecklers, Statler and Waldorf, from "The Muppet Show." (It is about 4:25 in.) Just brilliant!

Tonight's dinner was the lazy woman's risotto, parboiled Wehani red rice and lots of grated Reggiano, paired with broccoli raab, blanched and sauteed with a mess of garlic and crushed red pepper flakes. I am already looking forward to tomorrow's trip to Little Pepper in Flushing. Two words: cumin lamb.

Hooray for an extra hour of sleep tonight.

Only five days till the election. I feel like a kid before Christmas, wanting the clock to rush forward and get on with it. Yet, I know the day itself will all be so anticlimactic, and we'll all have election hangover. Without the wrapping paper and cool presents.

And speaking of anticlimaxes, I suppose that I should be happy for the Phillies, but I didn't want it to end like this. Lousy ending to a boring series. Thanks, Bud Selig!

Today's highlights included clipping my pedal on the curb, while riding to work on a bone-chilling morning. Damn those wide flat pedals. I am so used to riding the road bike, which has Look Keos, that I treat the commuter as if it has that narrower profile. The other was hearing a fellow building tenant have a breakdown in her office down the hall. She was shrieking so loudly that we could hear her in our office. I knew her from her raspy voice, grated down by decades of smoking, dripping with a deep Brooklyn accent. I've seen her in the elevator, and she seems like a rather tightly wound individual, and I feel bad for anybody who had to endure that fit at close range. I also suspect it's not the first time she's pitched a tantrum.

Yesterday's early-winter rain wasn't all a downer. I picked up a copy of Guy DeLisle's "Burma." He drew another graphic novel about living in another country relatively unknown to the West, the DPRK. Then I met ZB, bought jeans at the Gap, and had a fantastic dinner at the West Way Cafe. This by far the better diner than the extravagantly overrated Tom's. ZB had a heavy-on-the-feta Greek salad, and I had a fat grilled salmon, crispy baked potato, and the best restaurant broccoli I've had in recent memory. Of course, we split a slab of cheesecake, too.

This weekend we traveled into the wilderness north of New York City



We thought we were going to have to kill and dress a tourist for food (oh my Lord, but Harriman State Park brings out the daytrippers by the thousands--I guess it's the Oktoberfest). For their sake, there were so many pizza joints that we didn't have to resort to such drastic measures.

Good pizza too. Best was a cozy little shop in Cornwall on Hudson. The crust had a beautifully crisped, foccacia-like texture.



This time of year provides gorgeous light for photo-taking, so if you can't get a good shot with color like this, just go home and hang up your camera. ZB and I apparently, for all our degrees between us, can't read a map for s***. We got turned around on a simple hike to Storm King, and ended up doubling back on what was supposed to have been a three mile loop. We couldn't have covered more than three-quarters of a mile. We did get to see a gaggle of firemen and rescue workers in the process of hauling down a older Chinese gentleman who apparently went skipping a little too gaily on the rocks and twisted his ankle.

-Breaking out the jacket and knit hat.
-Tucked behind a few trusted wheels southbound on 9W during those last days warm enough for shorts and short sleeves.
-Baking cookies. SevAt sent me a fabulous recipe for pumpkin cookies. She warns me that it is rich. Even better!
-Stirring big pots of soup. Tonight I put up to soak a bag of white beans for a batch of bean and escarole soup. Recipe courtesy of Moosewood.
-Listening to the baseball playoffs, specifically the voice of Joe Buck and Tim McCarver on the TV. The ending of baseball means winter is almost upon us, making the post-season all the more bittersweet. (Go Phillies! Go Red Sox!)
-Sleeping snugly under the blankets, flanked by the cats, as the heat in the building has yet to be turned on. Which I don't mind, because said igniting of the heat means the humidity drops to a level lower than Dubya's approval rating. Any day now.

Speaking of under the covers...



Lloyd likes to pretend he's a naked mole rat. He is also part tree sloth (he drapes himself across my shoulders at breakfast) and part dog (he loves to fetch and will jump in the air like a golden retriever latching onto a frisbee).

But there is only one BikesnobNYC.