Halloween Town.

[Note: This entry has been sitting in edit mode since, I shit you not, October 25, 2007]

Back in October, Topher, Betty Boop and I rented a ZipCar and made our way out of the city, intent on discovering the best place in the world to get into the proper spirit for the coming holiday.

Short of driving to Salem, Massachusetts, we figured the best place locally was to go to Sleepy Hollow, New York. The town made famous by Washington Irving and his story The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

So we loaded the puppy into his crate, packed up our Ford Escape, and headed north.

Sadly, I was behind the wheel.

That, combined with the fact that signage on the highways and byways around New York City sucks terrifically huge snot, meant that we were bound to make a wrong turn at some point.

Which we did.

I was celebrating the fact that we had found our way across the Tri-Boro Bridge, and as a result missed the exit for the Major Deegan Expressway, and stayed on I-278 right into the heart of the Bronx.

View Larger Map

Now, had we kept our heads about us – wait, I shouldn't include the others in this... had I kept my head about me – we'd have just breathed easy and stayed on I-278 until we hit the Cross Bronx Expressway, which would have connected us with the Major Deegan again.

But I succumbed to the suggestions of my fellow explorers, and we got off the highway at Hunts Point Avenue, hoping to turn around and head back the other way.

True to the sorta Murphy's Law nature of my life lately, there was construction at the exit, and we ended up not being able to get back onto the highway going south.

Yay us.

It was at this point that tensions in the car over competing ideas of what to do nearly wrecked our excursion before we even got really started.

Still, after much consternation and finally stopping to ask for help from a kindly, if not terribly helpful, surveyor guy, we eventually made our way onto the Cross Bronx Expressway (via a circuitous route through the bowels of the Bronx), and we were on our way again.

Eventually, we made our way through Tarrytown, NY and into its famous valley, Sleepy Hollow.

Our first stop was the old Dutch Church, in which boneyard are buried the people upon whom the main characters in The Legend of Sleepy Hollow are based. It was a pretty amazing place. Hundreds of years of not-poor people are buried there, not least among them Washington Irving himself. To the left there you can see the top of Katrina von Tassel's headstone. It's amazing how, four hundred years later, it's still in fairly good condition.

I have no idea who John Buckhout was, but I loved his tombstone. He died April 10, 1785 at an age I can't read, and left behind him (I must be reading this wrong) 240 children and grandchildren.

240.

Thats freakin' Biblical. I must have read it wrong. You can look at the largest version of the photo here. Let me know if I'm crazy, please.

There were a number of really cool tombs in the boneyard – I suspect I could have spent the whole day just wandering the place and come away with hundreds of interesting shots. Here are just a few:

Atticus, too, had a good time in the boneyard.

Once we'd had our fill of the boneyard, we returned to our rented Zipcar, only to find that it wouldn't start.

I looked down at the gas gauge and found that it was near empty; not so near empty that I thought the car shouldn't start, but pretty darn near empty.

Assuming that was the problem, Topher and I hoofed it down the road (a thankfully short distance) to a gas station, where I bought a gas can and a gallon of gas, so we'd at least have enough gas to get us to the gas station.

It was only after we hoofed it back that we discovered lack of gas wasn't our problem. In hindsight, I should have known that wasn't it, since the engine wasn't even making the attempt to turn over when I turned the key.

Finally, like the man who should stop for directions, I swallowed my pride and called Zipcar to arrange some roadside service. The customer service agent says, "I think I know what happened. The computer here doesn't have any record of your having swiped the car out of the garage, so it might think the car's been stolen and the security system's kicked in."

!

We followed his instructions carefully (holding my Zipcard to the reader while trying to start the engine) and within a few moments were on our way. To the gas station.

The rest of the day, spent wandering the grounds of Washington Irving's home and exploring Tarrytown, was uneventful, as was the drive back to the city (no missed turns this time):

On balance, despite the missteps and the occasional tension, I really enjoyed our outing, and I'm looking forward to the opportunity to do it again someday soon.

Just not 'til summer, I think.

Business Time

Just one of the many reasons to love Flight of the Conchords:

Inappropriate Crush #642: I'm in Love With 3B

I'm beginning to think that Armistead Maupin could have set Tales of the City in my apartment building.

No, really.

I've never lived in a place that's so chock full of The Gays. Across from us are the Giant Gays (both over 6'2", but in truth we just call them that -- I'm no longer convinced they're both gay), and directly under us are the Mini-Gays (both short and adorable), and I'm the Medium Gay (though in truth, at 5'7", I think in some people's books I count as a mini-gay as well).

And then there are the assorted gays sprinkled throughout the remaining thirteen apartments in the building. A disproportionate number, if you go by the old 10% rule.

I'm just saying.

Anywho, all of this brings us to my most recent inappropriate crush: The guy in apartment 3B.

He's thin-without-being-skinny, and bearded without being too hairy, and he has sorta dreamy eyes. And, of course, he's, like, twelve. Figuratively. Of course, everyone under the age of thirty-five looks like they're twelve to me.

Alas, I have no picture to share. So you'll have to settle for a picture of Jake, who he kinda resembles, only skinnier.

Narcissus, Revealed.

Genius, Revisited

I freakin' LOVE Eddie Izzard:

Back in the Dating Pool

Hard for me to believe that it's been over six months since I broke up with Fozzie.

It didn't really start out this way, but the summer and autumn of last year really turned into a period of self-imposed celibacy. It was inspired, I think, by a combination of being over men in general and trying to sort out for myself what – if it wasn't going to be Fozzie, who was a perfectly lovely guy – it was that I wanted out of a relationship.

So I mulled. For a long time.

Now I'm not exactly certain that I have the answer to that question, but I've distilled the options a little, and so I've been kinda putting myself back out there, in as unobtrusive a way as possible.

Apparently my mojo is back, now that I'm actually concentrating on it. I've been on dates with, like, four different guys in the last month, which is more than I'd dated in the year before Fozzie and I'd started dating.

This weekend, I've got my third date with one. He's nice. Interesting story:

I went back to Pittsburgh last Thanksgiving, right? I went back a little earlier, mostly to see my mom after her knee-replacement surgery, but also to see the world premiere of Amsy Dane's play. This is a play that, at various times over the years, she's claimed she wrote for me and about me. In any case, there was a character she's always envisioned me playing. It would be erroneous to suggest the character was based on me; it's more like everything he says is pretty much ripped off from my mouth. Okay, that's not entirely true, but let's just say that the character was inspired by yours truly.

Anyway, I went back to Pittsburgh early to see this play in its world premiere. Apparently, it's impossible to cast me in Pittsburgh if you can't get me (I'm retired, remember, and live far, far away), so they had to cast a guy out of New York to be me.

Turns out he's cute.

Don't worry, I'm every bit as freaked out as you are that I think someone playing me is cute.

Anyway, I met The Actor after the show and he was really nice, but there didn't seem to be any interest on his part. No eyeballs from across the room, or flirty behavior or anything.

So I just assumed he wasn't that into me.

Cut to a week later, the day after Thanksgiving. Kenjiman and I are attending the opening of This Wonderful Life at The Pittsburgh Public Theater, and 'lo, but who should be there? The Actor.

Turns out that his show, being done at a college's resident professional theater, is off for the holiday, and he and his costar decided to catch this show and go to the opening night party. The same party Kenjiman and I have been invited to attend.

Suffice it to say that The Actor A.Pants (yes, we're going to call him "A.Pants") and I met up at the party and hit it off. We chatted, we joked, we flirted. He invited me to go out after the party with his costar as they hopped bars.

Unfortunately, I was the designated driver for a bunch of tea-tottling non-drivers, so the best I could do was agree to meet up with The Actor and Co. after I'd dropped my parties off at their domicile(s). Alas, we'd already committed to visiting the home of one of my friends' friends, so my catching up with them would be delayed.

Until 2 a.m.

We kinda got stuck at my friends' friend's place, so I assumed that I'd lost out on my chance with A.Pants. Until, that is, I got a text message the next morning (sent, amazingly, at 3:30 a.m.) which, translated, said, "You blew me off. It's okay. You should still call me when I get back to NYC."

I texted back immediately asking if he had plans for that evening, and if he'd let me take him to dinner.

He didn't and he did.

So this weekend we're going on our third date. I'm looking forward to it.

Who knew dating could be fun?

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

Who knew that getting a dog would net me a whole bunch of new friends? Or, at least, acquaintances?

One of the things about living in New York is that it can be incredibly insular. You can stay in your apartment, only venturing out for work or to meet friends, and you can pretty much live in a neighborhood without ever really getting to know your neighbors.

Unless, that is, you're the guardian of Atticus Finch.

As we already know, I can't walk down the street with Atticus and not get stopped by half the people we pass; he's a rock star, folks. But part of that experience is that the conversation often turns to things other than my dog, and I've gotten to know a little bit about a lot of the people in my neighbhorhood. So whereas I once might have walked down the street and given someone a friendly nod, but gone on my way, I'm now calling my neighbors by name, and recognizing their apartment buildings as I pass by.

My dog has been my pass into a community I should have been building from the moment I arrived in Brooklyn nearly seven years ago.

That little scamp.

Pay It Forward

Not long ago at The Velvet Prison, an announcement was posted about how the company was joining in on the 19th Annual New York Cares Winter Coat Drive.

So I went to my closet and started surveying all my coats, and I came across the one you see to the left, there. It's my overcoat. It's been my overcoat for probably twenty years. I hadn't stopped to think about that fact until I really looked at it.

Twenty years ago – maybe more – my family was, if not exactly poor, then working hard at making ends meet. And my mom, who was, at the time, the secretary at the rectory of our church, happened to be there when they were sorting through donations for a coat drive.

She came across this coat. It had been donated, clearly, by a pilot who worked for what was then USAirways. It was part of his uniform, but despite that was a pretty cool coat. Brown herringbone tweed, lined with silk-like polyester, warm and snug. Hefty. All in all a great all purpose winter coat for a kid that fancied himself an up-and-coming actor.

So she ripped it off and brought it home to me.

I've loved that coat – and gotten copious compliments on it – for years.

But as I stood there staring into my closet, I realized: Twenty years. I'm about ready for a new coat. The days are gone when every single piece of clothing has to be horded and cared for because I just plain don't make enough money for frivolous purchases like, oh, say, warm winter coats.

Maybe, I thought to myself, its time for karma to carry that coat to the next person who needs it. It was, after all, still in really good shape. Except for a tear in the inside lining, that coat still looked as good as the day my mom had brought it home. No fraying, no abuse.

So I said goodbye to a coat that had served me ridiculously well for twenty years. And I did so with an unexpected sense of satisfaction. It felt like fate, really. Not only was I helping someone a little less fortunate, but I was doing so in a way that seemed pre-ordained. It was as if that coat had come into my life when I needed it, and now it was time for it to move on to the next person.

So, thanks, Mr. Coat. You kept me warm through some pretty wonderful – and pretty bitter – times. I'll miss you, but I'll take a little comfort in knowing that you'll probably give a good twenty years service to someone else. At least I hope you will.

New Year, New Me (Not)

I've never been one of those people who hates the holidays or anything, but I'm definitely one of those people who hates new year's resolutions.

Our national obsession with making and re-making ourselves into some improved version of ourselves kinda burns my ass. I mean, don't get me wrong: I love a little self-improvement. But the whole idea of a project that you're starting in the new year seems to imply that it's something that you're going to do and be done with. As if the process of self improvement isn't a lifelong pursuit.

I'm probably just picking nits. I just think piling yourself down with a list of self-improvement projects at the beginning of the year is self-defeating, 'cuz if you don't pull them off, not only do you fail at that, you manage to make yourself feel a little bit worse than you did before you started the whole thing.

Does that make sense?

So, anyway, I avoid new year resolutions, and instead try to just imagine myself being a better person, a healthier person, a more compassionate person. I'm not interested in checking those things off my list by next Janaury 1; I'm interested in the ongoing struggle.