Little Fish, Big River, Bigger City

Day 307: Chow Time

Every Saturday is the start of a mini-vacation for me, an escape from the rush of the work week for 48 hours where I give in to the freestyle of seeing what happens around a determined plan. I wake up, collect my morning Times, walk AxL to Jack's coffee. I'm on decaf now with Triathlon training in full swing.

Somehow it's about eleven and I know I have to start. The bike is waiting for me at the gym and I set into a two and a half hour grind as sweat pours out of me, dripping from my hair as if I'd been doused with a bucket of brine. There's a pond under me as I finish and race downstairs for a 1.5 mile run on the treadmill. I'm getting addicted to this feeling again which isn't a bad thing as far as addicitons go.

The afternoon brings me to a Soho stroll as I run errands to Aveda for tea and shampoo, the Vitamin Shop for some supplements and drink powders and a visit to Elle's store, of course. I love Soho, the shops, the street merchants- which are quite different from the "street urchints" of Canal, selling watches, dvd's and everything else from hole-filled, grimy blankets laid out on the sidewalk.

Migrating North, I pass through Washington Square Park where every slow-moving puffy leather jacketed character wearing gold chains and a cocked baseball cap over a bandana'd head says "smoke, smoke, pot, crack, coke, coke," and I always laugh at their persistent pitches and wonder how ten to fifty of these characters so easily co-exist in such a small retail zone other than the fact that there must be a great NYU student market creating the demand for this economically balanced supply.

Once home, I check the mousetrap I devised on Christmas Eve to catch the tiny-bodied, big-eared character I've been calling Timothy-Stuart or T.S., for short. He's completely cleaned out the trap of fried rice, peanut butter, and dog kibble in my absence despite AxL's supposedly watchful eyes that are closed as his head is leaning against said trap. I thought I was ingenius, setting up a large, deep pot rigged with a tiny thumbtack hosting a dental floss trigger supposed to be set off by T.S. pulling on the dangling carrot coated in peanut butter inside the pot which should...no, WOULD drop the lid neatly into place the second after the "rodentia maximus intelligia" ran up the cardboard ramp and lowered himself inside for the semi-gourmet morsels.

It's time to buy the "Mouse Depot" I guess. It's also time to finally put AxL down as he's gone the last three days without eating. Or so I think...I proffer a fresh bowl of food and he plunges his white striped nose into the gruel happily as if nothing is wrong. And so goes the roller coaster ride. Perhaps the dog was inspired to eat by T.S. who seems to put away (or stash away someplace?) roughly three times his body size in tidbits.

I join the fray by making seared ahi with cajun spices - chow time in the little Village apartment inhabited by three largely unlikely and unnoticed characters perched above the business of West10th.

Seared Ahi - Heat a frying pan with a good coating of Olive Oil. Use the good stuff. Coat an Ahi (sashimi grade) steak with cajun spices and sesame seeds. Drop into the pan and stand back because the oil usually spatters from the moisture on the steak. Take some raspberry vinegar, black pepper, dijon mustard, a few drop of Truffle oil and a couple teaspoons of olive oil and mix in a little cup. Throw some mixed greens or fresh spinach or both onto a plate. Flip the Ahi Steak and add some more cajun spices and sesame seeds to the top. Drizzle the vinaigrette mix over the greens, wash the cup used to mix. Turn off the burner for the steak, place the steak onto the greens, grab a piece of your favorite bread, place it on the side and serve it up. Lemon slice optional.

Total Time - ten minutes
Total cost - around $6-$8

Day 306: In Touch With Thailand

Since the tsunami hit, I've been in a state of quiet and concerned wonder. Slapped daily with numbing images of the devastation, I think back to just a year ago when I spent several days on Phi Phi Island among blonde haired Europeans and several more days walking and swimming along Patong Beach.

It's all gone now. The people I would see day after day, and worse, I lost track of my friends on the boat I was on as they were at Patong on Friday the 24th and we've had no word since. I can only hope that they somehow decided to move before being hit. On Wednesday, I saw a picture in the New York Times of the gelato shop on Phi Phi where I enjoyed an extra large almond swirl not so long ago. A familiar sign overhead bearing the face of a Chihua-hua was an out of place souvenir of happier days as workers carried a body bag out of the flooded shop below the bright yellow beacon.

"I was just there," I think quietly. I can't take it any longer and so I return to work. I keep my MSN Instant Messenger open most of the day and before I know it, a familiar name has logged on. It's Griss from the crew of the boat! He's alive! And so is everyone else!!!

I quickly shoot messages of "THANK GOD" back and forth with him. At the last minute, my friend an the owner of the boat were called to Cebu, Philippines on business and so the boat was turned around and reverted to much, much safer waters. I stick to my adage that "when it's your time, it's your time."

Much of life feels unfair. It's the part I can't quite fully grasp that I have learned to simply let go of completely. It's the one answer I've found in dealing with said unfairness. New Yorkers reeled, and rightly so, as did the nation and much of the world when 9/11 occurred. Now, we're in the midst of something to the equivalent of 75 times the number of people lost in the Tower hit plus 5 million homeless - or roughly all of Manhattan having no more apartments. And yet, we bustle about our day, unaffected for the most part.

I wonder if I'm the only one feeling a constant and deep sadness mixed with a sheer inability to do anything beyond donating to the Red Cross over such a travesty?

I want to stop life, fly over, help that part of the world put itself back together, yet I feel powerless, tied to an apartment lease, an old dog, a job, etc. etc. etc.

I cringe at the thought that George Bush is raising $40 million for his "inauguration party" while it seems that "partying" in general should be put on hold until millions are back on their feet to the degree possible.

My little Brazilian neighbors have moved out and their apartment now sits not only empty, but open. Yes, open. As in...the door is unlocked and wide open. Where once there were giggling girls with adorable accents at all hours, there is now a hollow darkness every time I come up the stairs and pass by. It seems an apropos reminder of what India, Indonesia, Thailand and nine other countries must be feeling. Where there was once the sound of laughter and happiness, now there is nothing but darkness and emptiness.

Being in touch with Griss and crew was and will remain a ray of hope, just like I know that at some point, the apartment next door will become a home to someone soon enough, mankind will recover from all of this just as it always has throughout history, in spite of its unfairness, life does have a poetic balance to it, written by someone much larger and more knowing than we are. In that, we must trust.

Day 305: Frittering

The alarm begins its happy tune on my celll phone as I grope for it somewhere near my head. It's Thursday - time to ride! One thing that seems to be able to get me up and out of bed despite the kryptonic medications is English riding, or as I like to call it, "my new sailing."

This morning, I'm on "Quonset" who is a happy, good-natured, roan creature. I've been reading quite a bit about becoming a better rider in "Principles of Riding" which has really helped with all the nuances akin to this deliciously detailed sport where something so subtle as simply tightening your fingers can slow the horse down or initiate a direction change.

Before long, I'm cantering and cantering around the ring without stopping for the first time in my riding career. Normally, I get a good lap in and and that's it, (with the exception of the day I was on Bix, the thoroughbred who wanted to charge at full speed as if we were at Churchill Downs in the final turn). Thirty minutes goes by as if it were five and I only wish that Iron Man training went by as quickly and easily. Quonset gets his two organic carrot treat and I delight in rubbing his velvet nose as he smears orange and white foamy saliva all over my shirt, making me look like I work in the early shift at a frozen yogurt shop.

As I leave and take the sardine-hour train back downtown, I think about the hours recently spent on riding among other trivial pursuits. Then I think about the hours spent on writing, the real dream at hand. The realization smacks me post-dawn brain that the reason I haven't reached so many goals and dreams in life is because I'm so easily distracted with the "hobbies at hand" which seem to find their way into my life and derail the bigger picture with ease.

From Tri-training to horse-riding, I spend several hours a week outside of the pursuit of becoming a writer. I realize we all have the time to achieve whatever we wish, however, I don't seem to take that tiny extra step of taking the hours outside of work to pursue it with the vigor in which I pursue "side tasks" which somehow get fully scheduled and accomplished each week.

I'm not sure why this is. Perhaps it's my way of simply refusing to face up to failure or success by a polite form of procrastination or peripheral distraction. I look back at how I spend hours in the week - working out for 12-18, book club for one to two on top of reading for four to five, dishes, laundry, dog walking, bill paying, investment watching, grocery shopping, cooking, dishes, household cleaning, horseback riding and of course, the day job. Throw some puttering in here and there on really nothing in particular and I'm left with no "dream pursuit time."

I'm not sure how to tackle it but here's the short term plan for now - spend even a minimal amount of time, schedule in, just like English riding during the day. Additionally, I think that I can also reduce the puttering, speed up on some of the other projects and perhaps begin dropping some things off the plate which aren't "priorities" in line with where I wish to go and hope to be.

While this could very well be the most boring post I've ever made to my journal, perhaps it's one of the most insightful and hopefully, one of the more "productive" ones as all of this has come to light today.

At least another journal entry has been made despite no progress on the other writing projects. Those must come in due time, though. Otherwise, I know that I will soon enough reach the end of life, especially now that the first half has more than flown by and I'm on the downward slide toward an average life-span.

If nothing else, maybe someone reading this will gain a grain of inspiration from it as I have and I guess that's enough for "making a difference" for today. The rest of the hours have been frittered away, but there are plenty left to mould a dream from.

Day 304: This Will Hurt A Bit...

As I get off of my bike and start switching into my running shoes for the final leg, there's a lot of commotion and protest about me. Race officials are yelling and athletes, coaches, and spectators are yelling back. I look up and ask the guy next to me what's going on.

"They increased the run from 26.2 miles to 112...and we still have to finish on time."

"Shit." I think. There's no way I can make it as I was going to have a hard time with just the 26.2 run. I start running as hard as I can and after only a mile, I'm winded and have to stop, bend over, then finally sit down. I'm done and can't take another step. I have to quit and pull out of the Iron Man.

And then I wake up. I reach for my cell phone to check the time, 3:08 a.m. My sheets, hair, and body are drenched in sweat as if I'd just emerged from a hot shower wearing my pajamas and climbed into bed as is. I stare at the ceiling and wonder what on earth I've gotten myself into. Right now, I have trouble running even two and a half miles in twenty minutes, let alone the full distance. There is just a little over six months to go until the big day. But I can't pull out...I just can't.

My stomach twists with butterflies and knots and more butterflies until I've got so much anxiety that I just get up, get dressed and head for the gym, hair still wet from the the Iron Mare. I get on the treadmill and start going. I want to quit after ten minutes. I want to quit even more after twenty. Then I find myself a bit and dig in as endorphins start their magic. Before long, I've been running an hour which is a pretty difficult thing to do when the longest I've run to this point in recent weeks is thirty minutes. I still have eighteen minutes to go. Every minute feels like an eternity, but I eventually get to the end and hit the "cool down" button.

7.66 miles. And I'm feeling pretty sick to my stomach from lactic acid and whatever else is produced from an effort like I just put in. I go back to a feeling of dread that if this is how I feel without swimming or biking beforehand, I'm never going to make a full marathon in July. But what can I do but just keep going after it. I'm bound to get a bit better over time. Maybe I'll be feeling better in two months.

I get home at 5:30 a.m. and start the work day, take care of AxL's medicines, food, walking, etc. I feed Orion and Leo, the two peppy goldfish on the mantle. Eventually, the day is gone and it's time for "Book Club" with Maria. We're currently reading "Finding Your Own North Star" by Martha Beck. We have a phone call around 5:30 and she asks me if I can help her find an old '70's one-hit wonder CD tonight which she needs for tomorrow. I think I can so I set out to try. FYE doesn't have it. The first Barnes & Noble doesn't have it. Maria has called a few other places and they don't have it. So I finally tell her to get on the internet out of frustration to see if the damn song comes up in "compilations" rather than as the full album which of course, no one carries in 2005. Sure enough, we find a compilation online, I hit the monster B&N in Union Square and they've got it. Mission accomplished. You gotta love New York combined with the power of the internet to get anything you want at 7 p.m. on Wednesday.

I take a taxi to her place but am unable to ask my questions as the cabbie is overly involved in his cell phone conversation taking place in another language. I arrive at Maria's and we spend time chatting about almost everything except the book from loading songs onto her brother's new iPod to seeing Mr. Cha-Cha spin and skid around the floor chasing the kitty laser I got him for Christmas. Before we know it, it's 9 p.m. and time to head home. I get up, painfully and begin the long, cold walk south for eleven blocks. I reach our door, and then start the trudge up the stairs, retrieve Mr. AxL and trudge back down with him in my arms as I've done for about five months now. He pees and goes #2 and luckily, I don't have to hold him up tonight during the process.

One last trip up the stairs...and this one I can really feel through every tendon in my over-taxed knees from the early a.m. run as I carry a 47 pound dog in my arms. I collapse on the couch and wonder if I made a difference today. I take it to heart that the money I'll raise in doing the triathlon and training every day is something in itself regarding this New Year's Resolution.

Me and my splitting, aching knees and ankles are heading to bed. The next six months are going to hurt a little and I'm reminded of why I stopped doing sports but I'm also reminded that I haven't stopped dreaming or chasing goals and for that reason, I won't be giving up even though I feel like it at this point. Until then, AxL's still here and so am I.

Day 303: My Normal Neighbor

I once had a professor who said during class that he was sometimes scared to drink a beer because every time you drink, you kill off some brain cells. Not a big deal really, but what if he somehow killed off the one brain cell that separated kept him from someone who was crazy?

There is also a phrase which often floats around, usually in the wake of Upper East Side dinner parties after the second-string fluff guests have retired and the starting line-up guests take up their usual positions to champion glasses of 18 year old single malt scotch to finish off the game decisively. That phrase is "well really, what is normal?"

These two concepts have gently collided recently, much in the way that Irish Cream easily stirs into the perfect cup of French Press coffee to produce something that looks like coffee but has far more to it than meets the eye.

Meet John. He's about six feet, five inches tall, semi-toothless, blue eyes, and has dirty blond hair. When I say dirty blond, I literally mean DIRTY blond. As in it probably hasn't touched water or shampoo in at least a good two or three months. I first saw John sometime in July when moving to the neighborhood. He was often found lying half-on, half-off of the bench outside of Grano Trattorio's side door with a cup of coffee nearby. He was always passed out and he always had his left arm tucked into the front of his pants up to a point to where his elbow was still just visible above the belt line.

Even back then, there were times where I would see him walking down the street, his feet scuffling along in untied, beat to hell boots. The part about him that struck me was the residential acceptance of this character. As I'd be walking along, other passersby would exclaim, "MORNING, JOHN!" and he cheerily respond. Never once have I noticed him asking for a handout, a penny, nothing. Never once was the left arm out of the pants as they seemed to provide a type of low-hung sling that kept the arm in place.

The months went by and winter arrived. If there's one thing about having a dog that walks at the "speed of stop" it's that I notice a lot more things than when I race about at New York's average pace. Today was one of those days. As we took slow step after slower step after slowest step, I heard a door open to the left with the squeaky groan of a 100+ year old Village door. And out came John, arm visibly in pants under perhaps the dirtiest navy blue goose-down ski coat on the planet. He had a grungy stocking cap attempting to crawl off the side of his head and as he smiled at us, I could see slight wrinkles under the dirt on his cheeks that surely must have been put there by a movie make-up artist for a Mad Max sequel shooting nearby.

And off he trudged into the cold of the morning around the corner, shuffling along so that his untied beat to hell boots wouldn't fall off of his feet. Since we were basically stopped anyway, I took the time to look up at the structure from whence John emerged. It was for all intents and purposes, a perfectly normal apartment building. It even included a "For Sale" sign for one of the units from one of the better real estate brokers.

"He's got an apartment?????????????" I'm at an expansive loss for words or thought after this initial realization. A minute passes and the next thought arrives. "Huh...go figure."

Fast forward to the afternoon and Mr. AxL's fourth walk of the day. John just happens to be on the sidewalk coming our way as another, well dressed, highly manicured neighbor comes out of a building on the opposite side of the street. The neighbor yells out.

"Hey John! Good morning! How was your New Year?"

"Just fine, thank you, Rob! How about yours?"

"Good! Well, I'll catch you later..."

"Okay! Take care my friend!" John wraps up the ping-pong conversation which has likely taken place all over Manhattan in similar fashion in the last 72 hours between neighbors and friends. As we pass him I hear him call after me.

"He's an old timer, huh?"

I look back and smile. "Yea...he's older than dirt!" It's my standard line and I kind of cringe when I think of what I just said to one of the dirtiest men I've ever laid eyes on short of the day we played mud football on the rainiest day of the year back in college. John is unfazed.

"He sure is a good one. Good for you for keeping him going the way you do! God love ya!"

"Thanks, brother!" I sincerely toss back to a man with an apartment around the corner, an entire left forearm in his pants for who knows how long, and a big, heartwarming, semi-toothless smile decorated with the kindest, sparkling blue eyes in Manhattan. I gently recover to walking forward from talking backwards. I wonder if John drank that one beer my professor was always scared to drink but then I think...

"well really, what is normal?"

Day 302: True Friendship

The morning starts early with a 4:30 alarm. I pull my tranquilized body from bed and drunkenly bounce off doors and walls until I feel my cheek resting firmly against the shower wall, support my drugged body.

I hate this. Even as a child, I protested vitamins. All things "medical" that go beyond band-aids tend to freak me out and the fact that I'm required to take half a tiny pink pill called "Seroquel" amounting to 12.5 milligrams to change my sleep patterns is way against my natural grain. I loved sleeping only two to four hours a night, waking up at any hour without recourse, pulling two or three (or four) all-nighters without a hitch.

And now? Shortly after swallowing something smaller than a worn down pencil eraser I feel as if I've been hit with a Rhino dart by nearsighted colleague on a wildlife research team. I hate sleeping nine, or ten, or eleven or twelve (??) hours. I'm groggy in the morning, ready to go back to bed the minute the alarm rings, ready to take a nap at 2 p.m. AND 4 p.m., passing out at 7 p.m., and taping my eyelids open to make it to a simple 10 p.m. which used to be what I considered "lunchtime" in my daily routine.

I fumble out of the shower and into designer clothing befitting a man dating the manager of one of New York's finest Haute Couture stores. It's a giggling moment to think I'm possibly wearing duds tried on by Sean Connery, Usher, Will Smith, and body guards for Britney Spears. The air outside is finally be getting colder again which helps me shake off the groggies. I half-hail a cab expertly driven by one "Abdul from Egypt" who somehow can laugh while he talks the entire trip the way a billy goat can bleat and chew at once. It's a sharp contrast to my heavy-lidded, semi-slumberous state. I urge myself into the conversation forcefully enough to run my "Standardized NY Cabbie Survey" questions - How long in NY? 23 years. How long driving cab? 21 years. Where from? Egypt. Why New York? Because ha in my ha ha country you hear-ha stories about this ha-ha city and ha... you cannot ha-believe them to ha-ha be true-ha until they become so great-ha that you ha-ha-have to come to New ha-York to ha-see ha-for ha-yourself, ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-HA!!!

Before I know it, we're there and I'm a respectful five minutes early for a 5:45 a.m. appointment with the top psychiatrist for bipolar disorder in America. I love her. She's a lifesaver...literally. She's Finnish to boot and speaks four perfect languages - Finnish, German, French, English. She works five days a week from 5:45 a.m. until 6 p.m. saving snafu's like myself even though she appears to be in her 50's. I love the posh office and the fantastically precise, smart clothing she wears. I don't doubt for a second that I'm in the care of the best which gives me ultra reassurance amidst this ultra surreality.

However she IS human and oddly, when it comes to me, she runs consistently late which isn't a problem as I follow Thomas Edison's advice: "always have a book." I read about ten pages of "The Principles of Riding" before she finally arrives at 6:20. I ponder if the 5:45 a.m. appointment is just a test of my determination to stay on track through all of this as I continually hear that the status quo is to give up on taking care of oneself when faced with this sort of thing. Luckily, along with this bipolar gene I inherited, I also inherited what seems to be a "never give up" gene. Me and Jane Pauley.

The doctore and I go over my "journal" of bedtimes, sleeping hours, waking hours, and the results of another questionaire filled out at the start of each visit. She grants me a reprieve from one of the sleeping medications - Trazodone - which is music to my ears as it seems to be the cause of what I've been calling "the bends" - daily stomach cramps and issues verging on what could possibly described as an appendectomy without anesthesia. Over the past month I've oft found myself doubled over on the floor moaning in pain I've not known until now nor do I care to continue its acquaintance. I receive the additional gift of no return visits for a full month due to my good behavior and results so far.

I skip out and breathe in fresh New York morning air which tastes electric, like a large machine warming up before fully engaging all the gears compiled from the dreams of 7 million people who are here just like Abdul from Egypt - to see for themselves and risk failure in search of success.

An uneventful ride home on the subway and a quick jaunt from the Astor Place stop past NYU to home has me scratching Mr. AxL's ears perched just over his own groggy eyes. It's time to take this best friend of mine out and see what today brings. Since the Thursday before Christmas, it's been a bit of touch and go. Today turns out to be touch while go.

As I'm walking along ahead of him per usual to the corner, I'm jerked back as he strains against the leash for the daily #2 ritual all dog lovers know but don't enjoy. Today is different. I'm almost pulled off my feet. I look back to see "what the..." and am instantly non-rewarded with the sight of his back legs completely giving out mid-#2 ritual. What can I do but race to catch him before he goes down, in, and over?

I leap and get an outfielder's hand under his stomach and another on his shoulders to keep him "up and out" as much as possible. So here we are now. I might be at the end of my rope if I really have to go through this every day. My single unspoken phrase is "oh NO...." I follow it with a spoken, "it's okay, my friend, I've gotcha..."

And I do. Just as he has had me along so many low points over the last 13 years. The thing about a dog is that if you're a human with one, no matter how down and out you are, just when you think life has dished you rat poison and you're done, here comes your dog with that fateful "hey! can we go out now because I gots-ta pee!" look on its face. I don't wish to count how many times that look has pulled me up. Because of that, this gymnastic-coach "poop spotting" is a nutron of repayment.

Finished with the routine, he nails the dismount with my help and trots off while I do the plastic bag duty on the doodie in approximately .002 seconds. Of course, timing is everything: I rise a bit, lift Mr. A's tail to see if the derriere warrants a four letter word (B-A-T-H) and am relieved to see we're good to go. I look up and am not relieved to see the eyes of one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen looking at me disdainfully, as if I were some officeless canine proctologist practicing my veterinary arts on the sidewalk of West 10th.

So it goes in New York.

There will be another one just like her but even more beautiful in about five minutes. Until then, I tousle the hair on Mr. AxL's head and we keep going amid the churning dreams now in full, invisible motion around us - cell phone signals to Wall Street brokers, Soho designers, mid-town agents, diamond dealers, and yes, scores of writers. I smile and think, if this is what it has come down to, holding up my dog every day for this affair while rest of his day remains good - then so be it.

That is true friendship.

Maybe someone in Egypt will hear about it and just have to come and see for themselves.

Day 301: Maiden Voyage

It started off like any given Sunday at Jack's Coffee Shop on West 10th. The usual suspects were all there en force, with Village Tourists sprouting between them like weeds until floor space was nil. Luckily, it was cold enough to be my perfect element so I was able to retreat outside with the Sunday Times, a caffe au lait, and Mr. AxL decked out in his navy turtleneck considering his bony frame lacks the fat for warmth on days such as these.

Before I could settle in to my paper, the bombardment began of "what kind of dog is that?" and "he's so CUTE" and "HE LOOKS LIKE A BEAR! NO! A LION! IS HE A LION DOG???" It was a sharp but happy contrast to the half page of photos of deceased tsunami victims in full color on the page I was reading. I opted for happiness and put the paper down. Before long, I've made the acquaintance of anothe screenwriter and shortly after that, Stella and Libby arrive. I've now been tasked with dogsitting three shiba-inus for Andrea who makes my day with a free refill and a butter croissant I share with Mr. A and Libby who has an underbite of a bulldog set in the mouth of a soft-coated terrier mix.

Stella joins me and we begin chatting about everything from hanging French doors to her contemplating opening a jewelry co-op down the street in order to make the money and have the time to pursue her dream of making documentaries. I proffer all the advice I can on small business which results in yet another graciously gifted refill.

Partway through our discussion, she begins talking about a book that would make a great movie - "you've probably never heard of it but it's about this girl who was going nowhere in life and so her dad..."

I splurge out, "TANIA AEBI!!!!! MAIDEN VOYAGE!!!! THAT BOOK CHANGED MY LIFE!!!!"

"No way..." responds a shocked Stella. It turns out that Stella went so far as to look up the family who lives nearby and she has Tania's contact info in Vermont but stopped at that point. Before long, a couple hours have gone by and even I'm cold at this point so I return home with thoughts of actually writing a movie about one of my life-heroes. Who knows...stranger things have happened.

The rest of the day goes as unplanned.

I attempt to get my swimming training for the Iron Man in at the Crowne Plaza Hotel in Times Square where one of the New York Sports Clubs locations has one of its only 3 pools. I forget that it's Sunay and they close at 6 p.m. unlike my 7th Ave club which is 24/7. On the way, I got caught up in "Blood, Bath, & Beyond" searching for a "hose showerhead" so I can give Mr. Stinky a bath since his former groomer refuses to bathe him in his antique condition as if he were a porcelain vase which can no longer be put into a dishwasher. I also get stuck trying to locate new swim goggles considering the strap on my 24 year-old ones gave up for some reason. The Sports Authority sets me up with a pair of competition-grade Speedo goggles which I'm quite happy wearing on the subway for a bit to test them out for fit on the way uptown. Expectedly, no one even bothers to look askance when one does this sort of thing in New York.

I arrive at the Crowne Plaza just in time to hear that it's five minutes to closing so I head back to the subway to burn another $2 off my metro card. Somehow I get caught up in the newly opened West Elm store which underwhelms me. I eventually skim the sidewalks the rest of the way home, iPod earphones firmly implanting St. Germain's "Tourist" into my auditory senses, obliterating the cacophonical environment along the way.

As I walk Mr. AxL once, then twice, then a third time for the evening, I'm a dash upset for missing my swim workout today but figure that I can make up for it tomorrow at some point. Dinner of smoked salmon on toast for me and baked salmon for the dog seems to help. I tidy the apartment and search for Maiden Voyage only to find that Elle must have it so I'm not able to begin an outline for a possible screenplay. Nonetheless...2005 is underway, and so am I.

And now for the ratings once again!

NYC Degree - 3 saw a homeless looking man in the 50th and Broadway station for the 1,9 trains. He had a guitar that literally was "disintegrating" as if battery acid had been poured on it. The body looked like crumbled blue cheese and the head was actually using a plastic spoon to keep the strings on. Sadly, he was sleeping rather than playing so I'm not sure what the hell he might have sounded like but I bet he would've been great.

AxL-O-Meter: -1 (that's a negative one) he couldn't be much closer to being done save for the "happy trotting tail-wagging moments" that seem to keep finding their way into his routine just when I'm ready to make the call to the vet for the "final appointment." I still can't seem to play God - yet.

Iron Man: nil - was supposed to get in a good long swim which got derailed but it shouln't set me back more than a few hours to just get it in tomorrow since tomorrow is schedule to be a "day off."

Dream Dial - got in the 2nd day straight of sticking to my Resolution to write every day despite not getting anything done on screenplays or my book, the journal remains on track for it's 48th straight hour. (wow.)

ESB - Red Spire, Red and Green Base as it has been for most all of December. I thought it would change on New Year's Eve but perhaps the light changing person of distinction is on vacation in Miami.

Heart Rate - 3 - Elle is still away in Tunisia (???!!!) but should be en route home now. I'm still convinced that she's there to take out a terrorist cell training camp rather than to visit her brother as she told me. I wonder if she usually works alone like James Bond or if she meets up with a team of multi-national forces (hence the reason she speaks five languages) all trained with varying specialties. I still recall seeing the picture last summer in her family album: She was on camel-back near the pyramids with what appeared to be an assault rifle on her back. Suuuure it was a riding crop.... She never fully explained the pistol holster and scabbard on her hips either.