NY and NY (Part 1)

(friends and family)

Over the last few weekends, I have spent two of them in New York.
The state, I mean. Only one of them was inside New York City proper, when I went to visit Margaret and Mark in their places in the city; one was two weeks later, when I was in the other side of the state, at beautiful Chautauqua for the 18th annual MJIT. I'll handle these one at a time - though in a more brief fashion. To truthfully touch on each of these weekends as much as I would like would require a massive blog entry... each.
But I don't want to forget. Already some details fade. So I will write down the important parts of the trips, and perhaps wax philosophical later. And now, I come back to this sentence, and realize that I really do want to remember all the funny details and the individual events and the changes of fortune that made me happy. That is life, the details, the little events of the day – just listing, in one sentence, everything you accomplished is nothing more than a resume. So I will leave this as the NYC trip, and write about MJIT later.
For now, it’s on to NYC.

The trip to New York City coincided with Dave's trip to Connecticut and New York City. We headed up to Dave's place in CT, having an absolute blast on the trip up, and I got to ride on the train (after a rather impressive transformer explosion near the train station, which is the 2nd one I've ever seen). The train fairly flew to the city. I love trains; they may be my favorite method of transportation, and their offspring, trolleys and subways, are also good. But I loved riding a full-bore train, and relaxed, headed for the big city.
And it is big. Pittsburgh is a decent-sized city with huge suburbs; Philadelphia is a huge city with decent-sized suburbs. But NYC is a different beast entirely. It's sprawling, but with none of the space; everything is densely packed, and uses as much vertical space as possible. Modes of transportation and directions go everywhere. One of the biggest accomplishments of my NYC weekend was miraculously finding my way from Grand Central to the 7's 103rd street stop, and then finding my way (via Dunkin Donuts) to Margaret's house. I even got in before she realized I was there; she had fallen asleep, and her roomates let me in, so when Margaret went to answer the door, I was already back in her room. For all she knew I materialized from Grand Central directly into her house.
And it is a house. Built by her ancestors before there was total commerical development, it is literally hidden away in the nearby laundromats, hair stylists, and pizza chains. The house itself is old, but personable; I liked its spiral staircase to the 2nd floor and its hidden basement stairway located behind the spice rack. The windows even make it look like you're in a normal house, and it feels like if you move the curtains, you could see the neighbors mowing their lawn. If you do move the curtains, of course, out of two windows you see brick walls from two feet away, and out of a third you see a garbage-littered alleyway barely wide enough for a cat. Not exactly view-oriented. But somehow, that made me enjoy it all the more. It was classic New York; beauty (in the midst? despite? because?...) of tough situations nearby. Margaret was kind enough to house me under her roof for the weekend, and it was a blast. Classic Margaret. At different times I was intrigued, insulted, amused, confused, laughing, thinking... but most of all just enjoying. You can prepare for a weekend with Margaret, if you want... but sometimes it's cooler if you just let it happen.
For example: We got to cook chicken, and had some of the best mashed potatoes I've ever had, stunning for someone who doesn't like mashed potatoes; we saw someone on a bike get hit by a car and had to call 911; we expounded on theories about the city and terribly inappropriate conversational topics, including bunny stew and annoying roomate solutions (some overlap between these topics); we went to a karaoke bar in Manhattan and had a blast (more on this later); we went to a Brooklyn bar and listened to a guitar and mandolin duo; we watched Family Guy and laughed ourselves sick; we alternated nights where one of us got drunk and the other helped them out; we cleaned, dusted, swept, and washed her living room/kitchen/dishes; we played with her cat, Nimi; and we relaxed, recounting stories and good times. Nothing of what I expected. All the fun I thought it would be.
Also on the agenda was visiting Mark's apartment, although this was on a much more brief basis. After finding his apartment (not to be confused with the FedEx pickup/delivery location, as many New Yorkers apparently did), I got to see Mark for only the second or third time in five months. The man is looking good; growing well into a role he is fully capable of handling, and he is still maintaining a happy outlook on life, and is as gracious and funny as always. He also has a kick-ass apartment. The complete opposite of Margaret's living situation, Mark is in a redone made-to-be-an-apartment location, which he pays a great deal for (it is NY) but is worth every penny. The bathroom looks like something out of a mansion, the living room is huge and spacious, and he has his own roof to stand on. He didn't know what to do with the last item, until I suggested putting fake turf down and turning the disused 10-ft-diameter satellite dish leaning against the wall into a putt-and-chip area. He flipped out. Upon my return I expect his own personal 9-hole mini-golf course.
But Mark's company was the real key, and along with his fiery-but-kind girlfriend Jasmine, the four of us enjoyed a night out on the town Sunday, which included discussion about Dunkin' Donuts, finding a Dunkin' Donuts, going into a Dunkin' Donuts, debating whether or not to hold off on Dunkin' Donuts, determining to hit up the Dunkin' Donuts later, coming back to Dunkin' Donuts, hitting up Dunkin' Donuts, leaving Dunkin' Donuts, and coming back to Dunkin' Donuts because Margaret really had to use the bathroom.
There was also something about a bar and a mandolin. :)
But the fun part of hanging with Mark and Jasmine was riding on the subway - which took almost an hour, holy hell is NY big - and discussing stories, big and small, humorous and serious (like the damaged and closed subway stop underneath the World Trade Center that we slowly rolled by). Mark in particular seems happy, and content, willing to work out of a hole (financial or societal) to pursue what he wants. That is to be admired.
Best night of the trip: Saturday, going with Margaret to the karaoke bar "Second and Second on Second and Second." (Really.) I caught up with some old Singers, Carlos and Chupka, and really enjoyed hearing about what both had been doing. That was only the beginning of the fun. Despite getting there at 10:30, the karaoke was just ramping up, and I got to hear classic DW karaoke hits (like "Under the Bridge") while exchanging stories with Margaret, Dave, and Dave's brother (who didn't sing). Margaret, sweet girl that she is, bought me (at NY prices) some Alabama Slammers. Then, Margaret, evil whore that she is, bought me some MORE Alabama Slammers, and with the size and potency of these things (50 proof each) I was feeling it by midnight. Which of course prompted Margaret to go back to the bar for yet more Alabama Slammers and things got crazy from there. The music was loud, and surprisingly good - some real nice talent up there - and despite spending the better part of two hours looking over the song list, I couldn't figure out a song I could sing. No matter. The place and venue was bumping, more with every hour, and by 1:30 AM the whole bar was packed. There was a dead on rendition of "Lose Yourself" by Eminem, of all things, followed by some amazing old school rock and a candlelight vigil of Bohemian Rhapsody. Dave and Chupka did the Villanova Singers (and Spires, I suppose) proud, each getting raucous applause on every occasion they were up there. But by the end of the night, the company was the real good part. I was having a blast chatting it up with Dave and Margaret, and was enjoying my night thoroughly. The only problem was that Margaret (as previously mentioned) had me on very tipsy mode, to the point where every five minutes Margaret was cracking up over some effect she had caused. (Rumors persist that I was continually stealing her and Dave’s beers whenever they weren’t looking; these rumors are unconfirmed.) So when we finally decided to go, I would have had no clue – and probably minimal ability - to do what was required to get home. The route home ended up being 10% cab, 15% feet, 30% Grand Central and 45% Margaret, who, thankfully, did know what to do. Even Nimi knocking over Margaret’s keyboard with a clatter that startled the hell out of us both as I was getting ready for bed couldn’t ruin such a great night. Absolutely. Awesome.
I write this blog to remember such nights.
The trip home was equally fun as the trip up – Dave and I were alternatively blasting music, entering into meaningful discussion, reading Calvin and Hobbes comics, making phone calls, stopping for Subway, and having fantasy baseball and hockey debates. So even the minus of the trip – the travel – turned out to be a plus. Trips don’t get much better than that. And then... I was home.

Overall, a lot of NY I wouldn’t want to live with… but it sure is fun to visit.
Perhaps I’ll go back sooner this time.

Ninja

(cute, smelly black ball of fur)

We had to put down our dog last night.
Dogs - and really pets - mean different things to different people. To some, they are companions. To others, merely domesticated animals. To others, family.
I'm not interested in where I fall on the debate. What I do know - what I do care about - is that something that was in my life for 13 and a half years is no more. And be that a teddy bear, a favorite picture, or our black lab, that is a sad thing.

I was the first one of my siblings to see her. I was 11, so I was up later than my sisters and brother. My Mom told me to come outside, and I went out to the front porch. I remember it in great detail, and am happy to do so; how I couldn't see what it was, at first, until the black puppy opened her eyes. Her coat was midnight black, and if she wasn't looking at you, you couldn't make her out from the night. But her green eyes glowed with curiosity. She was barely more than a ball of fur, I could hold her in my two eleven-year-old hands. That evening she bounced around the front yard, her legs bounding everywhere and I laughed and was having fun... despite the fact that I had never wanted a dog.
That summed up so much of my time with Ninja - I had never asked for her... but she was so much more than I thought. If I had known what having a companion like this was like, I would have asked for one.
The kids all wanted to name her different things, so my parents decided that we could each put a name in a hat and we would randomly draw to see what the dog's name would be. Emmie chose something that I can barely remember, but it ended with III ("The third"). Grace and Rosie, combining their names and forces, both put in Annabelle. Mike - for reasons unknown - chose Pizza.
Looking at the black ball of fur, and remembering how I couldn't see her and how her legs bounded everywhere around the yard, I chose Ninja.
I won.
(Later on, we found out that my parents - normally very fair, reasonable people - rigged the selection process. As my Dad put it, "There was no way I was going into the neighborhood calling out for Annabelle." I couldn't agree more.)
So Ninja was part of the family.
She was an incredibly patient dog, a major reason we got a black lab; the young sibs, Mike, Grace, and Rosie, would ride on her, tug her ears, and give her hugs around her neck, all of which she took with stoic restraint. She loved licking anyone who fell on the ground - which happened every 2.3 seconds in our house - and spent the better part of a decade leaping up onto visitors in an effort to lick them as well. She had all the rage and bitter protectiveness of flour.
The turning point in Ninja's life was when my parents purchased and built Chautauqua. Dog heaven, we called it. With our nearest neighbors barely in visual sight, Ninja ran around Chautauqua like mad, sniffing trails, exploring fields, chasing birds and deer, and suntanning on the porch. A total snow dog, she loved playing in snow forts and chasing after us on the sled in winter; in summer, we played frisbee and threw sticks and chased her around, which was one of her favorite pasttimes. Whe would always let us get just close enough to grab at her when she would put on the afterburners and blow by everyone. She would play "throw the stick" at any time, and would always fall for the "fake throw" trick, and then get confused and look around, wondering where the crazy stick had gotten to this time. Most of the time when you did throw the stick, she would grab it and tear around with it, running away from everyone trying to get it back and then wrestling her for the prize. Ignore her, and she would be so disappointed that she would come trotting up to you and put the stick in your lap so that you could start wrestling her for it again.
We would take her to the lake, where she would nearly drown (indeed, we had to keep her away from it in her later years, fearing she really would) chasing the ducks. Ninja would be on a pier out into the lake, when a herd (herd?) of ducks would go by, quacking. Ninja would bark like mad - how dare ducks intrude into her territory - and the ducks, unconcerned, would continue on by, quacking away. This inevitably would cause Ninja to launch herself off the pier, splashing into the water and swimming after the ducks. She would try to bark at them, getting out one bark, and then water would rush into her mouth, and she would cough for 15 or 20 seconds, while the ducks (still extremely unconcerned) would swim around, quacking away. Ninja would continue paddling after them, never with any hope of catching the ducks, and intermittently barking and coughing up water until she was too exhausted to swim. She would then make it to shore, standing on the side of the lake, water dripping off her black coat. On average, it would be five minutes before she would get so infuriated at the quacking ducks that she would tear off into the lake again.
As lovable/hysterical as her "stupid" moments were (and there were many), she had two great kills in her lifetime that were badges of pride, both (fittingly) at Chautauqua. She killed a raccoon at one point, which she had then to be checked for rabies, but her highlight - the ultimate pinnacle - of her career as Ninja, Dog Huntress was when she took down a massive groundhog. This thing was HUGE, a big, mean, fully-grown thing that was waddling across the road up to our Chautauqua house. Ninja, out on a walk with Dad, spotted the thing and immediately ran up to it, snarling. The groundhog - smartly - held its ground, and Ninja began circling it, teeth bared, hackles raised, in full kill mode. Dad - trying to protect Ninja - tried to pull her away by the leash, and the groundhog took that moment to swipe at Ninja, opening a gash on her nose. Ninja looked up at Dad with a "Why would you do that?" look. Dad said that he felt so bad, then let her off the leash. "Get 'em, Ninja!" he cried, and Ninja skidded back into the fray, snarling and growling. They circled, each feinting attacks at each other, when finally the groundhog made its move. It charged for Ninja, teeth and claws first, going for a bite; but Ninja, now at age 9 but calling upon her prime, leapt over the groundhog, landing behind it. She then whirled around before it could react and sank her teeth into the back of its neck and shook for all she was worth. It fought, but Ninja gave a violent jerk of her head, snapping the groundhog's neck.
There was never a prouder dog than that day. She carried her prize back to the house, where she dropped it - literally - on the doorstep to the kitchen. Mom absolutely freaked. All the kids gave high fives and petted Ninja, who stood in her "noble protector" position - legs straight, head up, gaze noble. It was hysterical to see how proud she was, really proud. Mom chased her out. The kids all crooned that they had a great dog. Ninja was taken to the vet. But she also got a free run of chewsticks for the day... which she had while lounging around on the porch in the sun (after her kill).

So many memories.
- The way she would run next to you on runs, and then get tired, falling back until the leash caught, which would insult her pride and then cause her to run ahead of you, trying to prove she wasn't tired.
- The time she put down an entire Hershey's Pot of Gold, including wrappers.
- The way, when chastised, she would look so bummed.
- The way she gassed everyone out and the entire family would go (always in the same tone of voice): "Oh, NINja!" And Ninja would immediately leave the room. As she got older, she would leave the room as soon as she did it, thus avoiding the scolding; we learned that when Ninja suddenly got up and left the room, there was a 50% chance that it was due to full chemical warfare.
- The way she would choose one trail in Bird Park, want to go that way, HAVE to go that way, WHY AREN'T WE GOING THAT WAY??, to the point that you needed two hands and all your weight to pull her the way you wanted to go - which she would then suddenly agree to and take off down that trail, eager to see where THIS trail was going, and nearly jerk your arms out of your sockets.
- The amount of nicknames she had from the siblings: Snookums, Bookers, Snizzlewigs, almost any nonsensical sound combination you could think of.
- Dad saying at the dinner table countless times that he wished she would get a tumor and die already, when (not that) secretly he was a bigger fan of her than all of us.
- The way she would bark out the window at dogs going by, then come up to you wagging her tail, wanting to be petted for protecting the house.
- The way she would growl pleasurably when you rubbed her ears, and then when you stopped, how she would shake her ears violently and rub them along the couches.
- The way she would yawn if you were talking about her but not to her. This never failed. When we found this out, we would sit around the dinner table talking about Ninja, not even saying anything but just saying her name a lot: "Ninja, blah blah, today, NINJA, blah blah blah, Ninja, blah Ninja blah...." and she would start yawning. Never failed.
- All the pictures Rosie and Grace used on the dog - cameras worth - of her laying down, standing, wearing hats, etc., which Mom would then scold them for wasting film. "WE ALREADY HAVE 300 PICTURES OF THE DOG!" she'd say.
- The way she'd creep up to the table during dinner, and then be told to "Go lie down" by the family, which would cause her to go to the very edge of the TV room, ready to pounce if, perchance, a stray meatball would hit the floor.


So many memories. So much of my life.
I never wanted a dog. Didn't ask for it, didn't want to take care of it. I complained about having to walk her at night, in the cold, at having to go on runs with her, at her having the bladder capacity of a koosh ball. Being at college for 4 years and on my own after that, I might have spent the least time with her of any of my siblings.
And I am very sad she is gone.

What a great dog you were. You brought happiness and fun and life to the Calland household. So many places - Chautauqua, the dinner table, the backyard - won't be the same without you. I wish I could pet you again and give you a hug, and maybe wrestle with you for a stick. Great times. You were - and it's absolutely true - a real part of the family.
Some day, when I have kids, I hope they grow up with a dog that is half as good as you were.
Thanks, Ninja.

Distraction

(of the feminine kind)

Bah. Women.
Having been single for quite a while now... let's see here... over 8 months (has it really been that long?) I have forgotten how confusing it could be to be attracted to women. That sounds fantastic, and I am leaving it. But what I mean is that the time I've spent single has been great; I've gotten a chance to have some clarity, to spend some time with friends and just get to know what I would like to be and have as a person.
And fairly against my will, I find myself attracted to another person again.

Sitting at work, at meetings, on the way home, my mind drifts, wondering about situations, possibilities of hanging out, meeting again. Wondering what she's doing, what she's thinking. This despite whatever I want to be concentrating on. Very distracting.
The fact that it's against my will is simultaneously a good and a bad thing. Bad, in the sense that I wasn't planning on getting romantically involved again; I was enjoying my bachelorhood quite nicely after six+ years, thank you... but on the good side, it says a lot that I'm attracted despite my conscious aversion to getting involved. It's the kind of interest you want - one strong enough that it won't be dismissed easily, one that is inviting and yet secretive, that is familiar and has the enticement of places unexplored as well. A very fine line to walk. And we're solidly on the tightrope.
So I'm 17 again. Frustrating, more so because I had enjoyed such a nice, clear time prior this. More than ever I am sure God made two genders strictly for humor purposes (an experiment that has produced fruit in spades). Combined with her sending mixed signals at every opportunity, I have as much clarity as a blindfolded blind man wandering blindly in the pitch black. Blindfolded.

...Hyperbole aside, though, it's really not that bad. I'd like to know what she's thinking - but I'd like the Penguins to challenge for the Stanley Cup this season, and we can't have everything, can we? Small steps. Besides, this is very different from being 17. I am much more sure now; I know much better what I like and what I do not, so when I find myself attracted... I know I like her. I also have much clearer goals and desires. Not perfect - some of the attraction is her ability to shift me like an unsteady boat - but enough that I have a pillar in the storm, something I know won't go away, no matter the outcome.

So I will wait, and go about my day - which she will try and distract me from, no doubt. The thought is refreshing.

On another note, I am happy that I have gotten several large entries off my chest - entries that sometimes took months to write. They were stopping up other blog-worthy entries (my hair, my living situation, my writing) with their sheer size. But now that they're out in the open, I find the blog entries beginning to come with some frequency once more. That's a very good thing. I need to remember more. Once again, I am amazed at change, at situations, at life in general... good to have a blog to remember all the moments.
More simple entries on the way.

The Road Not Traveled

(has beautiful flowers)

I had one of the great conversations of my life last night.
These great conversations happen from time to time, and there's no way to try and create one - you have to let it happen, let it come to you. Sometimes you might have one a year. Sometimes you might have one a month for three months.
The last one I had was with Mark and Martin, in my living room, discussing the state of the world, politics, war, and life in general. We were up until 4 AM. And this out of a viewing of Resident Evil! Now there's a discussion-starter movie. Hahaha. But it just sort of worked out that way.
And that's how this happened: a phone conversation with an old friend, one that was meant to last twenty minutes or a half-hour, about nothing more than catching up, the basics of work, family, the surface things. And out of nowhere, a 4 hour conversation, one that I had to plug my phone in because it used up its entire battery, on life, the past, religion, memory, choices, hopes, dreams.
And flowers.

The road not traveled. Who can say what it is that causes us, when we come to a fork in our road, to choose left instead of right? Or right instead of left? If we are weighed down by others, by expectations, by external situations, who can say what choice would have been made if it was just you alone? Just you and the road. Just you... and the path that you choose. Instead, you are already down one path before you can even think of the momentousness of your decision, and you can see the other path winding through the forest. It has, from what you can glimpse, beautiful flowers. Your path has but one of them - a bittersweet reminder: perhaps put their by a spiteful demonlord to taunt; perhaps put there by a sympathetic god to remember.
What emotion to feel! Rarely do I feel such an overwhelming and heady bouquet of happiness, sorrow, hope, regret, and joy. To talk about it, to feel it, reminds me that I am alive... and that life is very worth living.
Grandiose statements, sure. So was the conversation.

So here's to the road not traveled! To the beautiful flowers that I can see from a distance, but may never walk through or live among them myself. To the dash of regret - but more to the pleasure of having seen them, having touched them just once. To knowing that whoever else chooses that path will have a pleasant journey to their destination. To the idea that you only walk one journey... and to the hope that I still somehow end up on that path someday.
To a great friend, and to a great conversation. *clink* May you have all the happiness and blessings those flowers can give. Enjoy your walk amongst them. And I - with my fatally flawed memories, my confused reminisces, and only the most tenuous connection to a past I desperately try to retain - will remember those flowers' beauty for all time.

Off-Balance

(the karma of offers)

And not days after finally finishing a long-written post about a kind offer not taken advantage of... it happened again, only this time, in reverse.
Not the exact same thing, of course, or even necessarily the same topic. But the idea was there - an open offer, a potentially limitless and special offer made only to one person, for them to take as full advantage of as they wished. Only this time I was the one offering, not being offered; I was the one stepping forward, freely giving an open-ended opportunity on one special occasion. And it was turned down. Worse; it was... unutilized, or the offer went undiscussed, like the value of it was not great.
I was not offended when it was turned down. I had promised as much with the offer. But I find to my surprise that the experience was disconcerting; kind of like going down stairs, expecting the staircase to end one step earlier than it actually does. There's a moment of wavering, where you expected to have firm support there is simply nothing. You catch yourself - the drop wasn't too bad, you're not hurt - but the feeling stays with you, that unsupported, losing-your-balance kind of feeling. I would be lying if it didn't make one think a little bit, to wonder why the offer was not accepted, to have your ego take a blow, however small.
Is it karma? That not days after writing a deeply personal memory, a similar event would occur in the reverse? If so, that's a sign that fate does not take well to the relaying of personal memories... particularly those that involve strong emotions, or others, or true past events.
But that is the purpose of this blog - for myself, to remember and record the massive events of my life, to try and make sense of them and keep some semblance of order inside my head. My memory for most of my life is bad enough. If I forget the important, the critical events both bad and good - and not incidentally, the lessons I learned from them - I will never grow as a person, never further my understanding of myself, and others. I must continue.
So, it this a test? A way to see if I could handle the same hurt that I had knowingly (though unwillingly) given a long time ago? Perhaps. It would make sense; I have little right to write about such a past event in such a detached, optimistic matter without an appreciation for the guts it took to create that situation for me in the first place. And after all the bragging I did about feeling good for holding back... can I really begrudge someone else if they didn't want to take advantage of an open-ended offer? They may even want to take it up later, and that this just wasn't the correct time for them, for whatever reason. A tough thing to try and remember, while you're wavering in the unexpected air.

I find myself, as I sometimes do, at an objective place. I think that perhaps it is good to be the one who has offered and found their offer go unused; surely, the next time I am offered such an open-ended gift, I will take said offering with a grave seriousness and a full appreciation for it, regardless of whether or not I accept it. I thought I understood then that it took guts to give a limitless offer to someone. I understand now that it is stronger than that - that not only are you running the risk of being turned down, but you have already reached your limit. You have offered everything you have. And you have been found wanting.

It's not fatal. It just leaves you a bit off-balance.