Boxes

Last night we broke out the Fresh Direct boxes we've been saving and started packing. Starting simply, we attacked the book shelves first, and quickly filled all eight boxes that we had. (We like books. A lot.) Now we're on the hunt for more boxes.

I'm always amazed when I'm preparing to move at just how much "stuff" I have. One would think with a small NYC apartment there isn't room for much&emdash;and that's true. Yet, after two years in this apartment I'm finding all kinds of things I didn't even know I had. I've always found moving to be a good chance to get rid of all this extraneous stuff. So in packing just those eight boxes last night, we also made two runs to the garbage and recycling room. It feels good to get things in order.

It'll feel even better to settle into our new home next week.

Passing The Torch

I just returned from Houghton, and my Fraternity's National Convention. This was a big event for me, returning to my alma mater for the first time in years and passing on the gavel to the next National President.

It's been two years since I was first elected President, and it's been a busy two years. I accomplished several of my goals, from obtaining insurance for the Fraternity to completely over-hauling the policy structure of the National Office. I've missed a few, a Travel Incentive Program that doesn't yet support the service aspects of the group. At the end of the day, though, I think I left the organization in a better state, with a more functional National Office and a clearer sense of the goals necessary to move forward. People have asked me what my "legacy" will be, and I'm not sure how to answer. I suppose, so long as the Fraternity is insured and March 14th, 2009 is the approved date on the policies I fixed, then I'll be happy that some of the more important work was worthwhile. Two Chapters bear my name on their Charter, which I'll freely admit, is pretty cool. I've offered to continue advising the new President, and I'm confident that the organization is in good hands.

But for me, I don't think I'm ready yet to leave a legacy. There is so much more work to be done for this organization to really get into a position to affect positive service in the music world. Lynn, also no longer a National Vice President, and I are focusing our efforts now on the Alumni Association. Some of you reading this may be hearing from us soon. I get the feeling that I'm in this for the long haul, and that's a good thing.

This Convention was a homecoming for me, in a few ways. It was wonderful to preside over the Convention at my home Chapter, and fitting that I come home to pass on the torch. It was also the first time I was able to spend real time in and around Houghton since graduation. Sure, I made a brief visit a couple years ago, but spent about 24 hours there, and most of it in someone's house. This trip was different.

Although the events of Convention didn't start until Thursday, we flew up Wednesday. Our flight connected through Minneapolis (as all flights to Houghton do), and they almost didn't let us leave that airport citing bad weather in Houghton. We eventually took off with the very real possibility of redirecting to Marquette should the winds at Houghton continue gusting above 60mph. It took three tries at approaching the landing strip, but we did land in Houghton and were off on our adventure.

We went into town, and met up with an old friend of mine John. John and I met back when I used to have lunch every Friday at Marie's Deli and he would be playing the harp. Eventually, he would join me for lunch, and we became friends chatting about everything from music to astronomy. I hadn't seen him since graduation, and we had a lot of catching up to do. He also adores opera, which helped he and Lynn get along just fine.

Thursday began as Wednesday ended; we had to finish our preparations for the meetings and business that is conducted at Convention. But afterward we headed to MTU's campus to meet up with some others. In true Tech tradition, we borrowed some cafeteria trays and went sledding down McNair Hill. Then it was back to the hotel for some time in the hot tub before heading back out for dinner at the Bass (Ambassador) and drinks at the DT (Downtowner Lounge).

Friday was meetings, meetings, meetings, and Saturday was one big long meeting--both extremely relevant to Mu Beta Psi, but not for our narrative here.

Sunday, as everyone was leaving, we decided to take a drive. Another time-honored Tech tradition is to go Copper Country Cruisin'. So, we piled a few other visiting Brothers into our rental car and went up US-41 and M-26 to Copper Harbor. It was exhilarating to be back, and I was amazed once again of the stark beauty of the land there. As we drove along Lake Superior, with waves frozen mid-crash, I fell right back in love with the UP. It will likely never again be where I live, but it will always be my home.

Taking It to the Limit

After an incredibly difficult week both in and out of work, Lynn and I decided to run away for the weekend. We went up to Killington, VT to meet some friends and ski our troubles away.

I went skiing a lot with my dad growing up, but during college almost completely stopped as other concerns crept in and time became a luxury I no longer enjoyed. Moving to NYC certainly didn't help get me out-of-doors, until Lynn and I started going up to Killington once or twice a year. I found, though, that while I remembered how to ski, the practice of skiing had considerably changed. My body has changed, and certainly the way I use it. And even the skis themselves had changed, the last pair I owned were straight and longer than I am tall. Nowadays with the parabolic skis, they're shorter, lighter, and feel quite a bit different.

Once or twice a year, for three years now, did not make me immediately recall the days when I was young and just wanted to go fast. But as I pushed myself a little more each time, I found the memories return, the muscles recall, and the technique slowly improve. Two weeks ago, skiing with Lynn's family, I went down the first black diamond run in at least a decade. Two days ago, I pushed my own limits much further.

We were skiing this weekend with a good friend who stood in our wedding and his girlfriend. They are both excellent skiers, and we find ourselves pushing a little harder when around them to keep up. My friend in particular is also a good motivator, and he knows just when I need a little nudge.

Our first run from the condo down to the base lodge was green, if only because there were no other trails to take. The second and third runs were half blue and half black diamonds—the real warm-up runs. As we rode up the Bear Mountain quad lift, along the famous Outer Limits trail, we couldn't help but all feel good about our skiing and our weekend. My friend, seizing the opportunity, noted how the snow was good, the moguls smaller than usual, and that this was the day—if ever there was one—to take Outer Limits.

Outer Limits is long and steep. It's known for being one of the steepest and toughest trails in the East. It's a double-black diamond trail.

And we did it.

I won't claim it was pretty, but I made it to the bottom without falling, and that's an accomplishment I'll take pride in. It was frightening, slowly moving toward the brink at the top of the mountain. But I heard a voice behind me, a friend saying "Don't stop! Don't stop!" and I kept going. Once over the edge and making way down the mountain, it became much easier. Where else was I to go but down? I focused on the snow ahead of me and where I should make my turns, rather than how steep the hill was and very far it was to the bottom. As with many things, once I'd committed to doing it, the act of doing it was a much smaller hurdle.

When I reached the bottom, the four of us celebrated with a well-deserved waffle at the base.


Images of Outer Limits from Wikipedia

Schermerhorn

Sometime around 1200 years ago in the northern part of Holland, prospectors followed a small river inland to a vast area of peat for digging. Being in the peat lands of the Netherlands, the river often flooded in storms, forming a wide shallow like from time to time. This earned it the name "Skir mere" which means "bright lake." This name was eventually shortened to "Schermer," which also became the name of the area around the the river's flood basin.

By the year 1250, the removal of peat and the repeated river flooding connected the Schermer river to the Zuiderzee, thus allowing for trade all the way to the North Sea. The people there settled a small village where the Schermer met another river, and they called it Schermerhorn.

Even today, the village of Schermerhorn is home to less than 900 people. Yet those bearing Schermerhorn as a surname have spread across the Netherlands and around the world. There were Schermerhorns among the original Dutch settlers of New Amsterdam, and they rose to be among the earliest aristocrats of the New World. For generations the Schermerhorn name was passed down through the wealthy Dutch of New York and Brooklyn.

It was a Schermerhorn who, married into the Astor family, created the Astor hotel to rival a competing family member's Waldorf Hotel. These hotels were later merged into the famous Waldorf-Astoria. (This same Schermerhorn, Caroline Webster Schermerhorn Astor, had a 39-foot-tall cenotaph erected for her grave at Trinity Church, not far from where I live now.)

The Schermerhorn farm, across the river in Brooklyn, had been divided and subdivided as the small village of Brooklyn grew into the second-largest city in the US. By the time of Caroline's reign over New York society, all that remained was a street running through Brooklyn (later called Brooklyn Heights): Schermerhorn Street.

Lynn and I have found an apartment, we're moving to Schermerhorn Street.

House Hunting in the Middle

I'm a bit frustrated. The building I love has become so incredibly annoying that I can hardly wait to leave it. The adjacent building has added 9 floors to itself, completely blocking all of our windows. We have to draw the shades so as not to draw the attention of the workers 8 feet outside the windows. But the shades don't block the noise. 7am sharp, every morning.

I've always said that the building is wonderful, it's just everything around it that's bad.

So, we've made the decision to move (possibly to Brooklyn). Our lease is up April 1st, and that's no joke, so the time to be looking elsewhere is now. Ideally, we'd want to overlap a little with our current lease to make the transition easier.

We've toyed with the idea of buying an apartment, especially with the market coming down so quickly. But the market isn't quite there yet, and we don't want to commit ourselves to a mortgage when our own industries aren't the most stable. And the process is so long. We've spent more than a month looking at properties on weekends, just to see what's available. And many of those properties will still be there if we start looking again later. It takes ages to negotiate a price, go through the process, and close. Far too long for our needs right now.

Meanwhile, with the rental market in NYC, the attitude is "now or never." If you look at an apartment, find that you like it, and fail to sign the lease that day, it's probably gone tomorrow. This too is abetting a little with demand falling off in this economy, but the prevailing attitude is still there. We've got an appointment for Saturday in Brooklyn. If we see something we like, we have to make the decision to live there immediately. There's no time to consider other neighborhoods, or sleep on it. Yes or no. Now or never.

I want the middle road. I want to be able to compare and consider apartments, to take the time to feel out the neighborhood, and what it would be like to live in a certain place. I want to learn about the building--where is the laundry? The recycling? But I also want the speed and ease of finding a place soon, and not spending weeks to months negotiating and signing a lease.

Tomorrow I may have a new address.

Learning Relativity in the Subway

On the subway home from yesterday, there was a boy and his parents. I'm not a very good judge of age, but I'd put him around 2 years old; he was talking, but not the most steady on his feet. Generally, my reaction to toddlers on the subway quickly falls into one of two possibilities: "aww, cute" or more frequently "please stop screaming."

This child was well-behaved enough, and I saw a very interesting thing happen. He was sitting on his mother's lap, on the right-hand side of the train. Thus, to his right was the direction of travel. His father, sitting across from him, was asking if he knew how many stops they had before they got off the train. The child, thinking hard, decided instead to point out that everything outside the train windows was moving "that way," to his left.

The father said, no, the train was moving "that way," pointing to the child's right and the direction of travel. Having none of it, the boy insisted, no, that way--left and against the direction of travel. They went on like this for a while, before the father gave up, and the mother distracted the boy with a small box of goldfish.

Mmmm, goldfish.

I found it strangely fascinating, watching the two argue about what exactly was moving, and in which direction. The boy, knowing full well that he was sitting down, and clearly watching the stations and lights whiz by from right to left, correctly stated his observations from the center of his at-rest coordinate system. The father, aware of his position in the larger coordinate system consisting of the whole city, correctly stated his observations from a moving point within that larger system. Both were right, but both continued to try and convince the other to change coordinate systems.

The source of their confusion is that the boy is still thinking concretely, unable to change his frame of reference to the world outside the train. Adults, though able to think abstractly and change their frame of reference, often refuse to change once they've chosen one. Most adults would never say, "get on the 1 train, and wait for the third stop to arrive." But both father and child sat there, staring at each other across the subway car, teetering on the edge of one of the first principles of Relativity.

Sometimes we need to remember, when talking to each other, to define our frame of reference.

The Pull of Brooklyn

Lynn and I have been spending a lot of time in Brooklyn lately. It began innocently enough; dinner with a friend in Park Slope, and celebrating a friend's new apartment in Prospect Heights. But before long, we were on walking tours of Brooklyn Heights and Cobble Hill. And then we took the big conceptual leap—what if we moved to Brooklyn?

I've tried, unsuccessfully, to avoid becoming the stereotypical "Manhattan Snob." Why, the very first day I came to NYC in 2003 I went to Queens—by mistakenly taking the wrong subway. I've spent a considerable amount of time driving around the Bronx—lost, looking for a bridge into Manhattan that didn't have a toll. And I don't know any of my friends or acquaintances who have also been to the Staten Island Mall—though it was a horrendous ordeal that I will never repeat. But I have, on occasion, explored the outer boroughs deliberately. The end of the A train in Queens, and Dyker Heights at Christmastime.

Still, I've lived in Manhattan for over five years, and the vast majority of my time in the outer boroughs is limited to getting to or from Manhattan. It's not so much that I have anything against the other three (I'm excluding Staten Island here, I will hold that grudge until the day I die). It's just that they're so far away from everything—that is, Manhattan.

Or so I thought. The more time we've spent in some of the nearer parts of Brooklyn, the more I've liked it. Some of the neighborhoods we've explored are lovely, with tree-lined streets, rows of brownstones and townhouses, and a very close sense of a true neighborhood. Certain neighborhoods are, in short, wonderful. And I am, frankly, really enjoying spending time there.

Add to this the falling real estate market, and a recently married couple thinking of taking the big step of their first real home, and you have several weekends now wandering between open houses seeing what's available. Lynn found this helpful picture on the interwebs to guide our search:

We've been looking primarily in Brooklyn Heights. It's a quiet, beautiful neighborhood of Federal and Queen Anne styled buildings. It has an esplanade overlooking the water, and it's own little "main street" with shops and restaurants. And it's only one stop from Manhattan.

We're looking for a neighborhood feel, check. Close to subways, check. And the added bonus of being an absolutely beautiful neighborhood, check. Brooklyn is looking more appealing every day...the pull is almost tangible.


Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/8172159@N02/

When Solitude Isn't

There's a trail at Killington called Solitude, and aptly so. It's narrow, and winds it's way through the forest off on it's own. It's entrance isn't obvious coming off the peak, it's not particularly challenging, and in some places is more flat than sloped. So it's not a very popular trail.

But there are times when you're cruising down Solitude with friends, skiing inches apart from each other. You're talking, and laughing, trying to knock each other over playfully. Around you the trees saunter by, the sky is endless, and every once in a while you round a corner and see the world stretch out beneath you. And you're grateful for it all: the surroundings, the people surrounding you, that you have surrounded yourself with them.

This year's resolution is to find—and appreciate—more of those times.

The Holiday Traveling Show

Occasionally, this blog sits around for a while. Generally I'm either distracted by shiny objects elsewhere, or simply can't think of anything about which to write. Not this time, though. Things have really just been a whirlwind of activity.

Lynn and I spent Thanksgiving in Michigan, flying out there for about four days. We were lucky to spend some time with some of the Flemings in Ann Arbor, and visit with them a bit. Thanksgiving dinner itself was at my mom's house (a first, since we've always had a big Soave family dinner) with several members of a new branch of the family. The next day we had dinner with some of the Soaves, and soon after flew back to New York.

Christmas was similar, as we found ourselves out with Lynn's family for Christmas, and up in the Catskills to my dad's place the next couple days. Fortunately, we had a brief layover in Connecticut on the way back home where we enjoyed the whole house—empty—to ourselves. Don't think I'm complaining, though. These holidays were our first as a family, and to spend them with all of the extensions of our families showed us just how lucky we are.

All the while, and in between, we've also played host to several friends who've come to visit or have been passing through the city. Many of Lynn's singer-friends have come to town for the audition season, and several others have been through just to say hi and spend some time with us. November and December have been an almost continual progression of traveling and hosting, and what could be better than friends and family at this time of year?

The stats:
Families visited: 5 (all out own!)
Friends hosted: 7
Distance travelled: 1,750 miles

The fun continues as we'll be up in Boston for New Year's, and then off to Killington for some fun in the snow!

Interlude

Where Did 90WestStreet Blog Go?

I can hardly believe it's November already. It's nearly time for family, friends, thanksgivings—and the first anniversary of the Great Flood of '07. The full story as told through this blog is here.

For all the craziness of that time last year, there were some really good things that came out of it. We got to meet and know neighbors that we must have walked past daily. A lot of the building residents came together. And out of that new-found solidarity as neighbors, came a collaborative blog: http://90weststreet.blogspot.com/. It became the centerpiece of our organization and communication. It kept all of us up to date with the issues of moving back in, the contamination tests, and the Port Authority settlement. And with the chat feature in the side rail, residents have kept in touch even since the last post.

Over the weekend, I noticed traffic to this blog from Google in Mountain View, CA. The referring url was http://90weststreet.blogspot.com/. Thinking it strange that Google would be surfing these blogs, of all others, I went to check on the 90WestStreet Blog.

Gone.

The url gives the error:

Blog has been removed

Sorry, the blog at 90weststreet.blogspot.com has been removed. This address is not available for new blogs.

No explanation, no citation of an abuse of the Terms of Service. Nothing. Google's Help Center explains that if there was a ToS violation, the blog would still be in my Dashboard. But the blog is not there, it has been completely removed.

I have to wonder, with as many collaborators as there were on that blog, if it wasn't someone else who was just cleaning out their Blogger accounts. But the visit from Google has my suspicions raised, the timing seems hardly coincidental.

I clicked around Google's Help Center trying to find an email address to send questions. Each thread of "clarifying" the problem ends in an over-simplified explanation of how I must be logging in with the wrong account. I posted to the "Google Help" group, though, so we'll see what comes of that.

But why? Why delete this blog? There's a lot of important information for residents in there.

Standing On Tip-Toes (Part II)

I arrived back at the hotel, and moved from the room I had stayed in Friday night to the room that I would stay in with my wife on our wedding night. Getting dressed was quick and easy, and I had a nice few moments of downtime with my mom, putting on the cuff links she gave me.

The drive up to the Waterview, where the wedding and reception were held, will stand out in my memory of that day. It's a beautiful drive, through a sleepy little town and up a winding river. It was around four in the afternoon, and the sun dripped through the colored leaves in that lazy-late-afternoon way. I drove, followed by cars of groomsmen and parents, along that river and followed its bends. And just before arriving at the Waterview, you swing uphill and drive across the dam that creates Lake Zoar above the river. To your left is the low river valley you've just come through, and to your right the shining blue water opens up into a wide lake with steep shores. It left me with such a sense of peace.

Once there, I was shuffled off to the very back of the room where the ceremony was to take place, lest I spy my bride taking pictures outside. It was a great time to hang out with my groomsmen and my cousin (who officiated), as we sipped champagne brought to us and waited for guests to settle in. Eventually, we moved to the lobby to line up, and then we were off through the doors and down the aisle.

I walked up the aisle and took my place next to my cousin and watched as the groomsmen and bridesmaids all followed. But I kept glancing back at the doors off to the side where the procession came from. I knew that after the maid of honor, I'd see my bride and her father. But there was one little detail I had forgotten. When the music changed slightly and my bride entered the room, everyone stood up. It didn't occur to me that everyone would stand, it had completely slipped my mind! More to the point, I couldn't see her. She was in the room and on her way and we were getting married and I had to wait until she walked from the side doors to the bottom of the aisle before I could see her.

A friend later told me I was standing on my tip-toes trying to see over the crowd.

And then I saw her, and my breath caught. My bride, walking right toward me. It was everything I could do to stand in place. I'm not sure there are words a groom can use to describe his bride that would make sense outside of that moment, but she was so beautiful.

The ceremony seems like a series of moments now. I remember it in little snippets. Smiling at Lynn. Laughing at the jokes my cousin told. Feeling the affection of all these friends and family who traveled from all over the country to be with us. The conviction with which she said her vows. The sincerity with which I said mine. The kiss at the end was a release, a celebratory expression of all the feelings after having to stand still and not pull her into my arms for so long! It was such a personal ceremony, the kind that only my cousin who grew up with me could provide, and yet accessible to everyone through his words and the way he brought everyone in. Lynn's cousins added many kind words and sage advice. Friends sang a song and read a sonnet that were what we'd been singing and reading to each other throughout our relationship—but not in so many words and notes. Nothing could dampen those moments, and nothing did. Even the little interruptions added to the sense of sharing a personal moment with everyone in the room.

We walked back down the aisle as husband and wife. The only thing left to do was celebrate!

So There Was This Party, And... (Part I)

I woke up on Saturday, October 4th in a hotel room. I always have this momentary confusion when I wake up in hotel rooms, that little bit of "where am I?" Sitting up, knocking the book I had dropped as I fell asleep to the floor, I look around the room sun-lit by a beautiful day. There's a full suitcase, I must be on my way somewhere else. There's a jacket, the weather just started getting a little cooler. There's my cellphone, charging. There's my tuxedo, I'm getting married today.

I'm getting married today!

Then it all rushes back in. Wednesday night prior, friends and family started arriving in New York. I took Thursday off from work, thinking I'd have a lot to do at the last minute. Everything was done, so I bummed around the natural history museum and Central Park with some friends. Thursday night I took the train out to CT, meeting a couple Brothers along the way. Friday was a golf outing with the families, a quick rehearsal, and a fantastic rehearsal dinner at this little Italian place. (It used to be a bank, and the interior still looks like it. The vault is used as the wine cellar.)

Friday night our families and friends took over the hotel bar. That was one of the best times during the weekend, to see all of these people who we care about meeting and talking and having a good time together.

Then I woke up on Saturday, in a hotel room, and it was my wedding day. The hotel was pretty quiet that morning (not surprising, given the previous night). But a couple of the groomsmen, friends, and I had plans to go for lunch. It was to be an adventure, some place we've never been before. This was not terribly difficult as the town we were in, Shelton, Connecticut, was a town to which only I had been before. So it was suggested that we choose one of two options: a burger place in Meriden, or a burger place in New Haven.

We chose Meriden, not for the location, but for the burgers. Meriden is home to Ted's Restaurant, maker of the world-famour steamed cheeseburgers. Yes, steamed.

Meriden, as it turns out, is 35 miles from Shelton. It took us a while to get there. Being a world-famous place, and featured on many a burger magazine and TV special, we weren't sure what to expect. We were not expecting the tiny little hole-in-the-wall (in a good way) burger joint that we found after pulling up onto the curb in Meriden. Ted's Restaurant has three tables and a counter that divides the three tables from the kitchen. The walls barely contain all this. But quite unsurprisingly for these real culinary treasures, the burgers were fantastic. We almost had seconds, if not for the very large meal to come that evening. And yes, we drive half an hour to sit in a little place for 20 minutes and drive half and hour back. And yes, it was completely worth it.

Of course, we also had to stop on the way back at a Dunkin' Donuts. Some crazy Californians with us had never been, and there were just so many that we passed on the way to lunch.

Finally back at the hotel that afternoon, it was time to begin getting ready for the evening. And oh, what an evening it was!

To be continued...

A Little Too Quiet

The wedding is now within the 10-day forecast on Weather.com. Somehow that makes it more real to me, as if that somehow guarantees that the day will, in fact, arrive.

They're calling for showers, by the way.

Things are fairly quiet. Lynn and I have a few minor details to pin down, but for the most part everything is ready to go. Everyone keeps asking us, "Are you nervous?" "Are you ready?" "Are you going crazy?"

Not really, no.

We're excited, and we're looking forward to it. But we're not stressed, and that's a wonderful feeling. It's nice to sit on the couch at night and think, shouldn't we be stressing about something? Shouldn't something be going horribly wrong so we can fix it at the last possible moment? Sure, something is bound to go wrong. This is a huge event, with many moving parts, and people traveling from all over the country. But it's set up so well now—thanks primarily to Lynn's meticulous planning—that we have the luxury of sitting back and enjoying the days leading up to it.

And we are.

Why I Live Here

Last night, I worked late. Leaving the office at 8:30pm means the sun is down, the streets are a little less crowded, and I'm guaranteed a seat on the subway.

This city is all about change. No one can live here, as the saying goes, unless they're willing to be living somewhere different tomorrow. The people, the buildings, the very ground the city is built on, are all growing, shrinking, moving. But if you catch the city in an in-between time, when it's not quite this moment anymore but not quite the next moment either, the city will show you its real splendor. It's as if the city shares a secret with you; to remind you why you're here, or just to remind you that you're here.

Last night was an in-between time. It's not quite summer here, but it's not quite autumn. It was dark at 8:30pm, but not quite night-time. And when I walked out of my office building's lobby onto 45th Street, I felt the change and my breath caught. I suddenly wanted to run around every corner just to see what was on the other side, and to go on to the next corner and the next. I wanted to see every street, climb every building, and find every last crack in the pavement. Yet the euphoria of that anticipation, the knowledge of those endless possibilities, rooted me to the spot just to prolong the enjoyment. You know these moments, these love-at-first-sight moments, when everything seems so clear and you feel somehow more alive than before.

And then the next moment came. The cars honked, the people laughed and chatted down the street, and the city, winking about our shared secret, moved on.


Picture by Joergen Geerds, New York Panorama

"And Another Thing..."

I was surprised when the BBC produced the Tertiary Phase, Quandary Phase and Quintessential Phase of the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy radio program. The Primary and Secondary Phases, of course, being the original version of the Hitchhiker's Guide, first broadcast in England in 1978. I was surprised because the three new phases of the HHG radio program were recorded in 2003, 23 years after the completion of the Secondary Phase, and two years after the tragic death of Douglas Adams. But it seems Adams left some pretty explicit instructions on how to complete the radio program, always his favorite medium through with he brought the Guide to the world. He had scoped out scripts for most of the fits (episodes) and left little to interpretation.

In the spring 2001, just weeks before his fatal heart attack, I had the great pleasure of meeting Douglas Adams. He spoke at my college, the last stop on what was to be his last tour. Being a college of engineers and scientists, he talked a lot about technology and the way we interact with it. He was so excited, so enthusiastic, standing on stage half-pleading and half-commanding us to bring him his dream: a real, interactive Guide to everything. Adams helped create h2g2 back in 1999 as a community-generated encyclopedia of everything. An early wikipedia, h2g2 has a section for peer-edited factual entries, as well as one for unedited entries that are more creative and fun.

After his talk, I asked him why he came around to colleges like mine. His response was immediate: technology can be amazing, and if we're as excited about evolving and innovating it as he is, then it surely will be even more amazing.

Today I was surprised again. A friend of mine pointed me to this article on the BBC's website. A sixth Hitchhiker's book? Written by a different author? Adams had said many times that he was always slightly disappointed with how dark Mostly Harmless turned out. He had intended to end the book series on a bit more of an upbeat tone, as he did the radio program. But can another author fill those rather large shoes? (Adams was 6' 5" after all!)

Eoin Colfer is already a well-established author, and a Hitchhiker's fan. It will be interesting to see what hits the stands in October 2009.

The View Out My Window (Unchanged)

The ongoing saga of 130 Liberty took a frustrating turn recently. A little more than a year after careless smoking caused a deadly fire in the building outside my window, inspectors have found evidence of smoking and drinking still happening inside the building. It's almost inconceivable that this would be allowed to happen after last year's fire, but the sad truth is that no one is surprised.

The building has become the ugly giant in the neighborhood, standing for everything that is wrong with the redevelopment of Lower Manhattan. It is the very real testament to our inability to move on and rebuild. Yes, the World Trade Center itself has also been plagued by bureaucratic delays and ridiculous budget overruns. Yet it is progressing, even if slowly. Building 7 stands tall, having been open for two years now, even if it does sometimes disappear right into the sky as in this NYT picture. (That's my building on the right.)

The steel frame of Building 1, the Freedom Tower, is above street level, and rising fast. The foundations for Buildings 2, 3, 4 are nearing completion, and the memorial and transit hub are starting to be discernible from the piles of materials that surround them. You can see these looking down from the top of Building 7.

But there, in the middle of that picture, looming over the bustling construction site, is the old Deutsche Bank tower. Half demolished before last year's fire, it's sat there ever since, the real shame of Financial District. The real failure in the rehabilitation of Lower Manhattan. Hundreds of thousands of tourists flock to the area each year, and they look out at all the newness of the in-progress Trade Center, and right past the true open wound next door.

Mayor Bloomberg has begun to take notice, however, and mentioned the Deutsche Bank tower in a recent op-ed. He is calling for the Port Authority to turn over responsibility for the WTC to the city. (The Port Authority is a joint New York State and Jew Jersey authority, and not subject to city oversight.) He's also calling for the near-dissolution of the Lower Manhattan Development Corporation, who has been mis-managing the Deutsche Bank demolition for the last two years.

The LMDC would also turn over its responsibility for demolishing the Deutsche Bank building to the already existing Lower Manhattan Construction Command Center, a city/state entity. This would help the LMCCC prevent the delays that inevitably result from too much bureaucracy, greatly enhancing the prospects for meeting a July 2009 deadline for full demolition of the building. To increase accountability, we will push the LMCCC to establish benchmarks for progress and issue monthly reports. The public has a right to know whether we are meeting our goals.

In the meantime, the men in hazard suits are still working, silhouetted in the windows across from mine. "No Smoking" signs have popped up all over the area. And someday, Lower Manhattan will pick the scab of the Deutsche Bank tower, clean out its only remaining open wound, and build a symbol of progress to replace the one of ineptitude.

Top photo: David W. Dunlap/The New York Times
Bottom photo: Uncredited/Gothamist.com

Population in Perspective

Since we're thinking about maps.

I often have a hard time explaining to my friends and family back in the Midwest just how many people live in this fair city. I've spent most of my life in small towns whose "downtown" areas consisted of two blocks of storefronts. So I was ambling along through the webs and found this map. It's a simple population of comparison, matching each borough of New York to the state whose population most closely matches it.


Yes, there as many people on my 14-mile long island as their are in the entire great state of Idaho. (And yes, what happens in Brooklyn, stays in Brooklyn.)

I find it fascinating to see this so plainly laid out. I see more people—and different people—each day than existed in either of the small Michigan towns in which I lived, or even both combined. When people talk about the "New York bad attitude" and how hard it is to get to know people here, I have to admit I'm not that surprised. Look at how many people we have in our lives daily. It's incomprehensible to think of getting to know an entire state—and any one of the five boroughs is no different. Add to this the 45 million tourists who come through each year, and is it really any wonder that most New Yorkers just can't deal with thinking about any more people? (Granted, we could all be a little nicer about it, but that applies across the planet and is just concentrated in cities.)

And if you really want food for thought, think about what this means about the way the electoral college is set up.

As an interesting aside, Manhattan and Idaho both suffer from confusion over the origin of their names. There are several possible origins for the word Manhattan, all deriving from the original "Manna hata" that Henry Hudson noted in his log book in 1609. Mannahata can be translated from the native Lenape tribe as "island of many hills." However, the Munsee dialect of the Lenape translates the word variously as manahachtanienk—meaning "general place of inebriation", manahatouh—"place where timber is procured for bows and arrows" or simply menatay—"island."

Idaho, meanwhile, is disputedly from the Shoshone term "ee-da-how," meaning variously "the sun comes from the mountains," "gem of the mountains," or "Behold! the sun coming down the mountain." But this may have been completely fabricated by a lobbyist named George Willing around the time the northwest part of the country was being carved into territories. However, a tribal chief of the native Coeur d'Alene Nation explains that in their language Idaho would be pronounced "Ah-d'Hoo." He translates the first syllable as a greeting and second as an expression of surprise, coming up with "Welcome, with open arms! We're just surprised that there are so many of you!"

That very phrase has been what New York has greeted newcomers with for four hundred years.

It's A Jungle Out There

Richard Florida, the pop economist, has released an intriguing new map of the U.S. that displays the relative ratios of men and women in cities. It seems that for men, the eastern half of the country is the place to find a match, while women should go west.


New York and its environs seem to be the absolute worst for women, with there being more than 200,000 more single women than single men. Sorry, ladies.

But wait, there's more! Brooklynite John Soma, who apparently truly does have all the time in the world, contends that the above map is misleading. Why? It ranges in age from 18 to 64--and ignores the trends across ages. His interactive map allows you to set an age range, and adjust for population. This gives a far more "fair" description of the singles scene across the U.S. Here is his map of the whole age range, 18 to 64:


NYC still doesn't look too good for women, and single men are still battling it out on the west coast. But once you adjust for population, it looks like this:


And here's where it gets interesting. As it turns out, it's not that are really so few single men in the east, it's just that there is a dearth of single older men. There are plenty—more than plenty—single young men in the east. If we narrow the age range, here's what we see (raw data on top, adjusted for population below):



It's raining men!

And if you're wondering why I'm blogging about this, it's because there's one dot on these maps that makes me laugh uncontrollably. Can you spot it? Do you see, way up north? Yes, it's my very own college town! A large population of young men, lost in the wilderness of the UP, trying in vain to become engineers under the delusion that it will impress all the women who are nowhere to be found!

Emily Creeps Me Out

I saw this in AdRants. (Yes, I'm trying to pay attention to the industry that supports me!) They point to this video that is currently flying around the web:



I'm not afraid to admit it, Emily creeps me out. She really is so life-like. Apparently, only after 1:30 mark is it actually the actress on screen. Before that her face is completely digital. Will actors and actresses become the next endangered species? Or will we see an overabundance of waiters and waitresses?

And all this in the wake of some other distressing ad-related news. Gawker reports that other ad companies are experimenting with face recognition software a la "Minority Report." Soon, the ads will know who you are, and create a life-like person to talk to you about what they're selling. I'm both amazed and afraid!