fin del verano

"When I go biking, I repeat a mantra of the day's sensations: bright sun, blue sky, warm breeze, blue jay's call, ice melting, and so on. This helps me transcend the traffic, ignore the clamorings of work, leave all the mind theaters behind, and focus on nature instead. I still must abide by the rules of the road, of biking, of gravity. But I am mentally far away from civilization. The world is breaking someone else's heart."
--Diane Ackerman

"Melancholy is incompatible with bicycling."
--James E. Starrs

No one pays much attention to the real beginning and end of summer, the summer solstice and autumnal equinox, but people prefer marking the beginning and end symbolically, Memorial Day and Labor Day. I'll bookend mine with bike rides.

A week or two after Memorial Day weekend, I boke -- newspeak for "bike ride" -- to Park Slope. I hated it: It was in the middle of a heat wave, I had no idea where I was going, and though the day didn't end disastrously it could have been much better. It was the beginning and end of any lengthy summer excursions. Until Saturday.

I had read on Gothamist, methinks, of a group meeting at McCarren Park to ride to Summer Streets, the NYC-planned closing of Lafayette, Fourth Avenue, and Park Avenue to 72nd Street to vehicles with internal combustion engines. This makes a bad biker like me happy because I'm terrified of riding in the street: the potholes, the trash, the idiots who don't use turning signals... As a pedestrian I own the road, but as a biker I'm lucky to make it to and from Bushwick alive. The ride began at 9am, and I was a bit disappointed to discover that the route wasn't to the Brooklyn Bridge and through Summer Streets proper: it was over the Williamsburg Bridge and the end point was a Transit Alternatives tent on Lafayette and Spring. Participants were informed free tote bags awaited, so my disappointment was short lived.

The ride was lovely; it wasn't a race, and a handful of seasoned bikers helped novices. When my front wheel started making noises on the Williamsburg Bridge, my good man Kevin fixed the break without breaking a sweat. After hearing some propaganda and picking up my free tote bag, I decided to bike to 59th Street then return to Greenpoint via the Queensboro and Pulaski Bridges.

Damn, the city was beautiful, the breeze cool, and the ride through Grand Central exhilarating: up the ramp, wave to Cornelius Vanderbilt, zig-zag through the terminal, and exit with a block party a stone's throw away.

Suffice to say I was having too much fun to return to Greenpoint (and do laundry) upon reaching 59th Street, so I continued to Central Park, expecting a grand start/finish line. There was none, so I followed the crowd through the Central Park loop, whose hills were much harder to climb than Grand Central's ramp, but coasting the zig-zagged pathway in the northeast corner made my aching tuchis's day. I stopped for about fifteen minutes in the West Nineties for a bottle of water and dirty-water hot dog, and continued through the park, exiting at East 72nd down Summer Streets. (There was another fifteen-minute break at the Borders at 57th Street for use of the restroom.)

Though the new plan was to go over the Williamsburg Bridge to Greenpoint, I couldn't resist going all the way and rationalized that I know Brooklyn Heights well enough to meander a way back; however; doing the Brooklyn Bridge wasn't a bad decision because of directions but because of the crowds. I've never been yelled at, nor have yelled at, so many people in such a short amount of time. There's a clear dividing line on the walkway for people traveling on wheels and on foot -- yet some people walked with their bikes in the bike lane. WTF? And when I cautiously swerved around them, I got yelled at for cutting it too close.

At least my memory from Park Slope served me well: I found Myrtle fairly quickly -- too bad I didn't look around for Grimaldi's -- went up Bedford and Berry, and returned exhausted but proud. Did laundry, fed some cats, slept soundly (thank you, cats, for no nocturnal disturbances), and awoke the next day ready to shop at Trader Joe's and clean like a madwoman.

I also wore a tank top the whole day to show off my Hank Hill tan line.

***
You're on, Cobble Hill.

if I were Betty Draper

Dear Don:

I hope you had a good time with your friends this week. Heck, I'm sure you did. Out in the wilderness, getting in touch with your inner caveman.

The kids are fine but miss their father. Sally stayed pretty mellow but wanted a few more hugs and kisses in the morning, and Bobby utterly misbehaved the first few nights you were gone. He's since learned that his outbursts won't bring you home any quicker.

I spent Saturday riding around the city, then did some laundry. Sunday morning was shopping for groceries, cooking, and cleaning. After I pay the mortgage at the end of the month, there won't be much money left from my revived yet short-lived modeling career until your paycheck on Friday. Honestly, I don't know where it goes; everything's getting so expensive.

I went a little batty on Friday. Nothing to tell the doctor about, but I was walking in the neighborhood alone -- can you imagine it? like Helen Bishop! -- and having bad thoughts. It's scary how the neighborhood is changing, and I remember thinking how I didn't belong, that I belong somewhere else, in an unpleasant area. But after a good night's rest, the thoughts went away and haven't returned.

But I was also surprised at how that new Japanese place is thriving. You know, the one that used to be a hardware store? We should try it before it gets too cold and they enclose the dining room.

Have a safe trip in,
Birdie

PS -- I have a confession to make: Our supply of cigarettes is low because I smoked more than usual to calm my nerves during the week and didn't purchase more since you get cartons from work. Oh, and I broke a martini glass while washing the dishes. My hands aren't acting up again, though; the casserole dish slipped.

***
But I'm not Betty Draper.

happenings of late

"The more you know who you are and what you want, the less you let things upset you."
--Bob (Bill Murray), Lost in Translation

Updates that deserve a well-written post (not this one):

• Had a great time during a poker game because I found a rhythm and wasn't awkward with strangers, fulfilled my hostess role with complimented-on salmon canapés (served on Triscuits), and partook of substances without unfavorable effects.

• Celebrated my birthday with Meg and Alex at the Museum of Sex. Learned about freemartins -- "The best name for a lesbian punk band," sez Meg -- and banana-slug apophallation. Also was fascinated and hypnotized by Paris Hilton's sex tape and the following:


• Celebrated my birthday with Current and his parents at Peter Luger. My e-mailed review of the night:

The medium-rare steak was cooked to perfection, the the steak sauce delish. My dinner drink, a martini made with Tanqueray, nearly put me under the table, as Dorothy Parker would say, but it was the Guitar Hero that knocked me out for the night. Speaking of knockouts, I looked divine in a maroon faux wrap dress ($30 from Old Navy -- you should get one too!) and smelled of sensual white musk, a present from Current.

For dessert I ordered a slice of cheesecake for the table, after confirming it wasn't made with ricotta, of course. (The waiter billed it as "One of the best in the country," and I joked that as a cheesecake-maker I have pretty high standards.) It came with a bowl of whipped cream with a birthday candle in it, and a few waiters joined my table in singing "Happy Birthday" barbershop-quartet-like.

I couldn't have asked for a better time -- except for not passing out -- and I can't remember the last time I held a mile-wide smile for the whole night.

• Went to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, where I discovered the wonders of macro, and the Brooklyn Museum.

• Saw a free, advance screening of Tropic Thunder, sealing my love of Robert Downey Jr. that began with Iron Man.

• Diagnosed with my chronic condition by gyno who prescribed heavy-duty antibiotics. (Won't make a difference; am allergic to penis.)

• Saw Neil Diamond, who makes corny sexy.

• Feel resentment toward comments made about how I handle my past, which opened up a big can of insecurity I thought I had taken strides to erase. (See poker game, above.) Must remember self-administered advice.

• Saw Pineapple Express (finally). Funny with over-the-top action but ultimately unsatisfying to an unbaked viewer.

• Wonder how I'm going to feed myself for a week without spending much money then hit the motherload of free food from work after a conference: chicken with rice, spinach, and greens and beef with mashed potatoes and carrots. Find a veggie wrap and macaroni the next day.

• Prepared Felix correctly and enjoyed properly. (You'll meet him in another post.)

• Think I must be the worst cat sitter ever after tripping over a cat in the dark en route to the bathroom one night.

• Think I must be the best cat sitter ever when they cuddle in my bodily crevices the next morning.

• Plan a Big Lebowski night, complete with Caucasians, and then discover the DVD remains in plastic wrap. Damn. Watch Californication and play Soul Caliber instead.

• Think I'm going to fucking kill this cat when he does not stop climbing onto my nightstand, my dresser, and a bookcase with an LCD television on it. Declare martial law and spritz water bottle liberally.

• Fall in love with cat again when he greets me in the morning.

meme from Weird Pete

• Type your answer to the questions into a Flick'r search.
• Using only the first page, pick an image.
• Copy and paste each of the URLs in the Mosaic Maker.

1. What is your first name?
2. What is your favorite food?
3. What high school did you go to?
4. What is your favorite color?
5. Who is your celebrity crush?
6. What is your favorite drink?
7. What is your dream vacation?
8. What is your favorite dessert?
9. What do you want to do when you grow up?
10. Whom/what do you love most in life?
11. Choose one word that describes you?
12. What is your Flick'r name?

Napoleon's penis and Churchill's condoms

DSC00773, originally uploaded by rutila.

As brought to you by Tony Perrottet. Read the book for the amazing journey of how Napoleon's penis wound up in Englewood, New Jersey.

Also, here's a quick, apocryphal tale from World War Two:

Russia had a condom shortage, so Stalin asked Churchill if England could supply the goods. Churchill agreed, asked the manufacturer to double the size of the condoms, and sent them to Russia with the label Made in Britain -- Medium.

lists

vodka traif
Originally uploaded by rutila

"Tissues and condoms. Gin and tonic water. Seven-layer dip."
--Friday's shopping list

That list really says it all, and some time around Wednesday and Thursday I decided to fill the universe with affection. It responded in kind.

Tuesday
• Crosby, Stills, and Nash.
• Stupid words.
• Befuddled and betrayed by G train.

Wednesday
• Pilates and birthday drinks with poker buddy.
• Mad Men.

Thursday
• Facial.
• The Dark Knight in IMAX. (Disappointing movie: Specific scenes were spectacular, but the movie suffered from Spider-Man 3-itis -- couldn't support all the plots and villains.)

Friday
• Drinking, gambling, smoking, and fornication -- in that order. (My summer in a nutshell.)

Saturday
• Stuffed peppers.
• Cleaning.
• Telephone tag.
• More cleaning, now with a Manhattan. (Stir-crazy pacing, thinking What else needs vacuuming/mopping/washing/taking out?)
• Mad Men, with a proper martini, not vodkatini.
• Three-quarters of Robocop. (Masterpiece.)
• High times and good times.

Sunday
• Spicy Bloody Marys.
• Repulsion. Polanski sold out, thus took pics, mainly along Wythe Avenue.
• Raise big-ass plasma TV.
• Back up Sexy Mac.
• Last quarter of Robocop.
• Wake-up call four hours ahead of schedule, not that I'm complaining.

advice to keep in the forefront

Stolen from Jezebel:

Take nothing personally.
He didn't do it to hurt you, and if he did, that's fucking weird. Humans are self-obsessed, that's the only reason you think this is about you, when it's really about something that has left people much smarter than us befuddled for millennia now, so you might as well focus on what you can control, which leads me to...

Take yourself personally.
Your persistent low self-esteem: how did it get that way? Were you awkward growing up? Not quick or witty enough? Just ugly? Once you gained a shred of confidence, did you blow your wad seeking out companions you knew would make you feel inadequate? Why? Think you're a narcissist? Or just a weak person? Guess what? We're all different. We're all completely individual assemblages of genetic traits and collected experiences. We're all special, which is precisely what makes us so un-special. If you harbor lingering dissatisfaction with yourself, figuring out what it is is a pretty good way to start coming to terms with that.

Get off.
It has never been easier. There are vibrators at CVS. Porn is an ill-advised Google Image Search away. And really, we all need sex. If you masturbate enough, you'll only seek out casual sex for self-affirmation. And knowing you are doing that will make it a lot easier to handle rejection!

Tell someone you're mad before you find yourself getting passive-aggressive.
This was the suggestion of my roommate. Ha.

Better yet, ignore the anger.
It will find more useful targets.

Repress.
It's not denial if you are aware you're doing it!

The last three go together, and I disagree with aspects, but the main thing is shit happens, has happened, and will happen again. Don't continue to stand in it; wipe off your shoes and bury the memory.