a course in obstacles

The setting: 7th Avenue, a weekday morning.

19th Street: Sidestep the shopowner hosing the sidewalk in front of his bodega (the one you don't like very much); hope to cruise cute Server Boys setting up tables outside Elmo. Pretentious? Check.

22nd Street: Wonder again what happened to the mini Statue of Liberty that once graced the corner, check on the new sushi place across the way (which had been under renovation and recently reopened).

23rd Street: Balding middle-aged man plays electric guitar (with amp!) on the southwest corner. He likes Led Zeppelin, but you'll sometimes hear newer stuff (is that Coldplay?). Construction grunts are neck-deep in a gaping hole in 23rd, which makes crossing a challenge. Robert Plant must not mind the noise.

24th Street: The dreaded Whole Foods Corridor, where an onslaught of college kids clutch clip boards. "I know you care about animal rights!" "Can I have 20 seconds to talk about the environment?" "Are you a registered Democrat?" Crank up iPod volume, avoid eye contact.

25th Street: Rail-thin hippie guy sits cross-legged on the sidewalk, holding acoustic guitar, shirtless. Pause to admire his cardboard plea: "I'm skinny and I'm homeless." Sad story, but such graceful penmanship! Check on status of new restaurant going in. Weigh mixed feelings over the chance it's another Chipotle.

26th Street: The Fashion Institute of Technology looms ahead. Pouty young fashionistas fill the sidewalk. The girls won't even look at you, but the boys with rolled-up jeans might offer a once-over filled with silent pity. Yes, I shop at H&M. Get over it.

27th Street: Buy a 25-cent banana from the friendly Indian dude, who also has iPod playing. Beware: More construction. The sidewalk looks like post-war Iraq. Duck past the chick handing out fliers; avoid flying gravel.

28th Street: If spare change remains, pick up a Post from the newsstand dude with the unsightly growth on the side of his face. Try not to stare at the growth.

Enter building, pray to be spared the daily dance of elevator drama. But really, that's another story.

are you dead?

It's never a good sign when someone sends you an e-mail with this subject line:

"Are you dead?"

The fun continues with the message itself: "Speak to meeeeeeee frooom beyyooooond the graaaave!"
OK, I get it. Sadly, his note isn't the only one I've gotten in the past couple of days asking if I'm still breathing. I'm here to tell you, rumors of my demise have been greatly exaggerated. I'm very much alive and kicking. But the last two weeks have been dizzy and daunting. We had back-to-back house guests, the first one planned, the second an unexpected arrival whose plans had changed suddenly once he figured out that Southern Decadence was under water.
Good times were had by all.

The BF and I readily admit that having folks visiting makes us go out and experience things we'd probably not do otherwise. Therefore the past two weeks have included:
* Fire Island.
* Hairspray.
* Opaline (in its new location).
* Spirit (where the Sunday night party formerly at Avalon has moved).
* Alegria.

Our houseguests left Tuesday night, and I found myself neck-deep in another production cycle at work — a particularly grueling one, made worse by it being my third week on the job.

So here we are, the calm after the storm.
The summer, I guess, is over.
There's a new chill in the night air.
And yes, I'm still alive.