Maybe it’s simply the length of space between stops that opens the vortex, but I couldn’t help myself from checking the map of the subway every few minutes or so, convinced that ‘I must be there by now…’

But, the time-leacher was worth the trip. Mainly because I got to help my friends move from a well arranged but still tightly packed studio, into a roomy one-bedroom, that left the young couple with soooo much extra space, it made them feel, as they put it, “a little dirty.”

But the cherry on that trip, was the ride back. While delayed at Jackson Heights, I just happened to look out the window.

She wasn’t dancing. If she had been, it wouldn’t have been worth watching. She’d have been another busker, or one of those horrible people who have confidence enough to dance in inappropriate places without feeling silly. (I really don’t know how they do that.) No, she wasn’t dancing. She was practicing.

Her eyes closed, and her mouth counting out the steps. Her feet barely moved. They scooted maybe an eighth of their intended stride. It wasn’t even as much as a step. She leaned the count into her feet. Alone on the platform, she practiced her steps in miniature.

But as she went along, her strokes kept broadening. Swaying a little more. Sliding her toe more than an inch or so. Two more box steps and her hands transformed, almost instinctively, into a pose. All the while, her eyes closeed; her lips counting the beat. Then, in one final fall away, her foot let slip a full crescent step, running full bredth across the concrete. Her toe bounced as it landed, and that sudden jostle was enough to open her eyes. She saw the man up the platform staring at her with wrinkled eyebrows, and she flipped her head away.

She straightened up, smoothed her skirt, and repositioned her purse on her shoulder.

As my train started on out of the station, she leaned out to look down the track, grimacing at the sight of nothing.

Picture from corvid73

It was an odd choice last night. Like many a fan, you’ve got to decide where you want to watch the big game. Drop a few hundred to scalp a ticket at Shea, go to a notorious Mets bar chock full of fans, go to your local where the tension won’t be quite so high, or just go home and watch the game in the serenity of your own couch. It’s a sliding scale. The more fans around you the more intense the game feels; the outcome of the game, especially. You might be missing out on a wild celebration by staying at home, but you also might be sidestepping an opportunity to have heartbreak amplified and blasted into directly into your ear.

I went local…and it still stung a bit. And I don’t really want to talk about it.

But it was a great year, a great series, a great game. And that’s still pretty fucking good.

Even without anything else, there’s still this: Finally, after seven months, I can think about something other than baseball.

So far…thinking about doing my laundry…probably time I got to that.

Meanwhile, our friends, through Pittsburg and Philly,
Batted and fielded, with eager hearts,
Till our elderly pitchers, not yet old farts,
Started pulling all their calves, all willy nilly.
On Pedro, out went the left then the right,
And his shoulder, suddenly, became terribly tight,
El Duque was primed, for game one he was pegged,
Until a sprint in the outfield took out his leg.
And as they bent over, wincing in pain,
We all looked over at Rookie John Maine.

Twenty years they’ve waited,
These Met’s fans, and foes,
For the playoffs, the hits, the throws.
When they clinched they nearly fainted.
But now we wonder, and clatter, and tear,
With the very familiar,
if, this year, peculiar,
Old Metropolitan Fear.

But onto the mound rides our John Maine,
A Rookie in October, to shut down LA,
And an early off-season here to delay.
Just get six innings, and ease our pain.
The pen will endure, and get us out of the game,
If when John gets the ball,
In the park it remains.
Just know your place, rook,
Pitch by the book,
So born this night-wind of the Past,
then through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and still maintain,
The Mets took the division indeed,
Thanks to the miracle arm of rookie pitcher John Maine.

- To the theme of The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

P.S. A Dodger’s relief pitcher put himself on the disabled list busting his hand on a broken glass of water he got last night in his room. It’s been called a “bizarre Hotel-related injury.” This is all getting to be too much.

P.P.S. Let the mocking begin…

P.P.P.S. Mets win.

As a few of the guys at work are trying to pin down new apartments, there have been a lot of visits to craigslist from these desks lately. Little bursts of delight popping when a good deal pops up, usually followed by the grumble of post-broker deliberations. Living month to month, I couldn’t help myself, and started lurking about. I popped in the rent I’m currently playing to see what options I’d have in Brooklyn, my home borough. Then, I thought, let’s see about Queens. Well, why not the Bronx? Then, just for a laugh, Manhattan.

And then, with a spring in the mind, the real adventure began, and I started searching in other cities. Same deal. Dropped my current rent into the field, and see what pops…up…Holy Shit! Before I go on, please keep in mind, all three of these apartments are roughly the same monthly rent.

In NYC: Studio Apt, 45 mins out of Manhattan (by subway). Basement. Approx 400 sq ft. Required first, deposit and broker’s fee equal to one months rent.

In Austin: Two bedroom, two baths, patio, 20 min out of downtown (by foot.) 970 sq. ft. In a complex with pools, fitness center, Billard Room, and…get this…a free DVD rental station. That’s right, in Austin you get a free blockbuster with your rent. Oh…and there’s no brokers fee, and they knock $250 off the first months rent as a signing bonus and…I…urg…Oh god…
This hurts.

In London: (And yes I did the conversion from Dollars to Pounds.) Two bedroom, two bathroom, 15 min out of town centre (by the tube.) Well…oh god…ummmm…one bathroom has a…oh jesus…a JACUZZI. That’s just…that’s just…it also has central air…and a central…no…no…it can’t…why? Why would God do this to me? A Central music system, that you can hear it perfectly, since the entire apartment has been…soundproofed.

Kill me.

Go ahead, give it a whirl, and take a gander at what we’re all spending for the wonders of New York City. It’ll make you consider shoving your lease down your throat and choking on it!!! Whee!!

For the non-NYC’ers and metrobloggers, jump on in and see the hovel you’d be living in if you took a bite out of the big bad ‘spensive apple.

One more time: Whee!!!

1.) According to very drunk Mets fans, I, apparently, look a “hullava-lot” like Chad Pennington.
2.) Looking like Chad Pennington will not help you get a chant going a Shea. There are a lot of Giants fans there.
3.) Any three words or syllables can become a chant: “Lets Go Mets,” “N.L. East,” “That’s not bad!” (Directed at Trachel) “Need More Beer” (Directed at everyone during the dry ninth inning.)
4.) Clapping for nine innings straight with give you what looks like sun-burn of the palm.
5.) Screaming for nine innings straight makes you happy they invented text messaging.
6.) You can hug a fellow Met fan for three whole seconds after a clinch before it gets creepy.
7.) I hate the Dodgers. To parse this: The new Stadium being built to replace Shea…it’s based on Ebbets Field. That was the Dodgers, not the Mets, people. Oh…and what do they want to call the new Stadium? Jackie Robinson Stadium. Now that man deserves a building, he does…but again…he was with the Dodgers, not the Mets, people. And what do I wake up to this morning? Dodgers steal the headlines knocking out four home runs, back-to-back-to-back-to-back. Then winning it with a Nomaaarrr walk-off home run. Grumble. (Do Dodger fans say Nomar’s name like they’re from Boston? I can’t hear the name without the drawl.) I look to the NLDS for catharsis.
8.) I’m slowly warming to the “The Team. The Time. The Mets” slogan they’ve had all year.

And finally…

9.) Even when you’re full of happy thoughts, and the day seems to be going your way left, right, and center, if it’s past nine o’clock and you’re waiting for the G train, you will always, always, always end up spending enough time on the platform to put a dent in Proust.

P.S. Mets win.

“Come on and clinch already!”

Or else:

“Did you catch the Giants game last night? God-fucking-damn-it that was sweet!”

Despite the Mets being about to win their first division in nearly twenty years and the Yankees putting a bow on a near decade of dominance in the AL East, the baseball buzz is surprisingly subdued.

It doesn’t help that the Mets have missed three chances to clinch their division against Pittsburg, for Christ sake.

It doesn’t help that the Yanks dropped three to the Red Sox this weekend. (Keep in mind the Red Sox Nation’s only chance to see a post-season this year is if everyone in America wearing a Boston cap chants, in unison, “I do believe in fairies.”)

Usually this time of year, the piss and vinegar starts flying, but big leads, disappointing play, and the babble-fest of fantasy football seem to be keeping everyone quiet on the subject of Baseball. I always thought of New York as a baseball town, but this year, even when the stars seem aligned for a Subway Series, the silence makes me wonder.

I actually went to a bar on Friday when Pedro was supposed to lock things up for the Mets. He didn’t, and despite the NY1′s collection of cameras begging us all to get jazzed, the chants were pretty sparse throughout the night.

On Saturday, I had the bright idea of getting tickets to both games of the double header. By the end of the loss in the day-game my skin had a lovely red tinge burned in, and I was officially burned out. Even after the second game, the one the yanks took home, the walk down the ramps that’s usually punctuated by “Boston Sucks!” and “Fuck Big Papi” was quiet. Just one Yankee fan tittering to another.

I’ve got a couple rain day tickets left over from a game a couple months back. The Mets have a chance to clinch tonight with a win on their home field. After years of abdicating the crown in the National League East to the Braves for so, so, so long, you’d think the fans would be rolling out to Shea with streamers in their hands. You’d think I’d be running there…but I’m honestly not sure if I even feel like going.

I’m burned out.

But I wonder. Is the city burned out with me, or are the five boroughs just over baseball in general. When we’ve got a hangover, and that damn sun won’t go the fuck away, we all don one of the caps, but do we really care any more?

Spoiled New Yorkers with their yearly trip to the playoffs. We’ll hear about it soon enough. Just as soon as October hits, and everyone who’s barely seen a game all year dusts off their jersey.

Maybe I will go to Shea. Just to say I was there.

She’ll return them to Key Food for one-thirty-five.

They have those machines now.

Fare thee well recycling lady. May the leftovers of a hipster poker night find you on the next block. If only they offered a little more for imported beer at those recycling centers.

Here’s why:

Duffy’s in midtown made it a point to introduce their new model employee. Oddly enough, though, the black mannequin itself didn’t appear in the windows, just a collection of white female mannequins. Maybe he was still training. Still it’s nice to see a company so proud of their minority team members. Even if it is a bit sketchy that they bought him.

A SunGlassHut, following in Daffy’s footsteps, shows off their flexibility when it comes to their customers. Judging by the models they put up, any enemy of Ripley’s is a friend of theirs.

Just continuing evidence that Catholics make the ugliest churches. Really, did the Pope get a big grant in the 1970′s and tell his Bishops to go crazy? All these places are missing are disco balls and the Average White Band performing the recessional.

Yes, it does exist. I’ve been telling people of this particular institution for years, and finally, FINALLY I have photographic evidence. Classes involved in this B.S. degree include: Introduction to the Hose, De-Licing, and Getting Cuddly-Wuddly with your client. By the way, you can tell the man in this pic would be proud if his daughter matriculated here. That diploma on her wall…single tear. So lovely.

Took me an hour to make the walk. Sweated through my t-shirt. Sooooooo worth it.

For the higher floors they have rigs and pulleys and wire-fu-like Matrix devices, but for my short three floors, they just hang out the frickin window, dangling a good twenty five feet off the ground with nothing but the McDonald’s awning to catch them. (Given that it is a McDonald’s awning, they’d at least be well greased by the time they hit pavement.)

I just find it odd to see some guy Spidermaning it off a twentieth floor building face, just so a few office drones don’t have to deal with that smudge some dang pigeon must have left.

If nothing else, if the whole window cleaning thing falls through, they can at least be a repelling advisor to SWAT.

Image from cns.gatech.edu

You’ve returned to your city, your friends, and most importantly, your bed.

It’s an exciting moment.

That said, that joy can be doused quickly and efficently by simply being forced to utter the following phrase: “Excuse me, why are you taking me to Rikers?”

Fortunately for me the person, and unfortunately for me the story teller, I was only being dragged over to the infamous island by a lost cabbie and not an acting officer of the state. My driver crashed into a guard rail, circled the airport three times, and now for the finale…Rikers. Wonderful.

“Whatchu doin’ buddy? The fuck. This a citizen’s arrest?”
“I…uh…”
“This guy visiting his Dad or some shit?”
“…um…”
“What, man, what?”
“…umm…BQE?”

The eyeroll the cop gave my driver would have killed Indiana Jones.

It’s good to be home.