Ad Astra!

Atlantis awaits rollout in the VAB - 4/19/10
Ben Cooper, Launch Photography

When I was very young, being an astronaut when I grew up was a foregone conclusion.  Well, after I got over my dinosaur paleontologist kick, at least.  I jumped into science, physics, astronomy, and loved it.  As I grew up, my interests shifted a bit, but I still stayed with the theme.  Astrophysics, as I studied in college and grad school, was everything about space except actually getting there.  (Some day I'll be rich enough for one of those private trips above the atmosphere.)  Still, I watched every launch I could on TV and later on the internet.

There's something so exhilarating about watching a rocket or a shuttle lift off into the sky.  The power, the rumbling, the fire, the grace, the beauty, and finally the awe.  It's unlike any other man-made marvel and reaches right down into us, tapping that sense of wonder and exploration.  Suddenly we're all back with our space helmets and pillow-fort starships, and everything is possible.

I've never seen it in person.

In all my years, and all my trips down to Orlando, I've never been able to line anything up with a launch.  I've been stuck running to a TV, or watching the NASA coverage on their web site.  Sometimes, though I'll never admit in person, I watch just the launch scene from the movie Apollo 13.  Sometimes I watch it twice.

With the shuttle fleet retiring this year, I came to the startling realization that I may never see a launch if I didn't act quickly.  So I checked the schedule, cleared a couple days from work, and bought plane tickets for Lynn and I to head down for the launch of STS-132, the final flight of the shuttle Atlantis.

Since then, I've been following the shuttle's progress from the Orbiter Processing Facility (OPF) to the Vehical Assembly Building (VAB), and finally out to the launch pad. NASA's shuttle page has great coverage of the details, but I've been really enjoying Ben Cooper's Launch Photography site. Ben is a NASA photographer and has amazing access to the shuttle for pictures. Here's a whole series on Atlantis being lifted up and rotated in the VAB so they can attach the fuel tank and rocket boosters. These are rare, and awesome, pictures.

Today, Atlantis is sitting at launch pad 39A, where in two weeks' time it will lift off on its final mission. And I'll be there to see it in person. With my space helmet. Everything is possible.

Atlantis rolls out to launch pad 39A - 4/21/10
Ben Cooper, Launch Photography

Walk Through, Take One

On Friday, we saw our apartment for the first time in over a month.  Despite the general craziness about the condo structuring sill on-going, everyone involved is pretty confident that things will still move forward.  (That's a relief.)  So we had our first walk-through since the apartment has been finished.  There will be two more along the way, one in several weeks, and the final right before closing.

It was a little surreal.  For one, this is the first time we've seen the apartment finished.  The last time we went to the building, there were no appliances in the kitchen, not quite everything had been painted, and many of the little finishing touches had yet to be installed.  The hallway on our floor had no carpet or paint as well, and truly felt like a construction zone.  This time, nearly everything was in place, and it looked like a real apartment.

Our apartment, which was the other surreal part of it.  We've been looking at apartments for a long time, and have seen so many, and have invested ourselves in more than a couple.  Is this one really ours?  No, not technically yet, but it's darn close.

For now, the questions are moving away from "What will our monthly expenses be?" and "Is this a good location?" and instead becoming "What color should this room be?" and "Along which wall will we put the couch?"  And that's close enough for me.

What's My Age Again?

Pens aside, I've been talking with a lot of people lately about what it means to be a grown-up.  Not surprisingly, I've gotten a lot of different answers.  Some say you're a grown-up when you're legally responsible for yourself at 18, others when you're out of college, or married, or buying a first house, or are responsible for another human being in some way, or have gone through some cultural rite of passage.  When you're in your twenties.  When you're in your thirties.  When people call you "sir."  When you have more married friends than single friends.  When you can't believe how young everyone else suddenly seems to be.  The definitions seem to be endless.

One of the best responses I've gotten has been, "You know when you can ask that question of yourself, and are genuinely concerned about your response."

It may be because both of my parents are in the mental health field, but I've come to believe that the mark of adulthood is a certain level of personal responsibility and self control.  (How's that for vague and high-minded?)  An adult is in control of themselves by choice.  They recognize and balance their own desires with those of their family, friends, and society.

And yet, by that definition, how many adults do I know?  Virtually none.  I know so few people who don't lose their temper publicly, make irrational decisions based on their temporary emotional state, or act out of selfishness or emotion, that I can count them in my head quickly.  Politicians cheat, celebrities party like teenagers discovering alcohol for the first time, and everyone lies to others or themselves.  I don't even qualify for adulthood myself by that generalized definition.  On the other hand, I know plenty of people over the age of 18, out of college, married, or in important positions who occasionally, some more than others, behave like they're under 18, schoolchildren, single, and face no consequences.

Consequences, by the way, factored largely into the responses I've been hearing as well.  Some say an adult has to face consequences.  Others say an adult is able to face consequences.  Yet others claim an adult is someone who foresees consequences and adjusts their own behavior accordingly.  All variations on the theme.

I am in my late twenties.  I am married.  I am (tying to) buy a home.  I have a job where I lead a team of people with little oversight.  I pay bills.  I analyze consequences before acting.  Well, most of the time anyway.  Do I get it?  Am I a grown-up now?

Are you?

So Maybe That Catch Isn't So Little

The new apartment saga continues.  While our mortgage brokers and the bank lenders bicker about what forms we should or should not sign (all of which carry little real meaning), new regulations from Fannie Mae have thrown another wrench in the works of our new building.

The building was built with the first floor much larger than the upper floors.  The first floor was intended to be large enough to hold a grocery store, or some other comparable commercial enterprise.  Meanwhile, there's a two-level garage underneath the first floor.  Compared to the upper floors, where the apartments are, roughly 60% of the floor area is commercial, leaving about 40% residential.

With the beginning of 2010 comes a new regulation stating that new condominiums cannot have more than 20% commercial space.  Whoops.

Not sure where we go from here, but it looks like it'll be an interesting ride.

Well, There is One Little Catch

Our contract on this new apartment is secure.  Our mortgage application is in progress, but there's nothing really to be worried about at this point.  But there is one possible catch in all this, and it involves the question nearly everyone has asked me since the last post.

When do we move in?

Because this building is new construction, they haven't quite secured their temporary certificate of occupancy (TCO) yet.  That is, the city has not certified that the building is ready and safe for people to actually live in.  Once the building receives their TCO, we'll close and move in between 30 and 45 days after.

They were expecting the TCO by the end of January.  Hopefully, they'll get it soon.

The Pen is Mightier

When I was young, I always knew how important something was by what pen my mother used to sign her name.  If it was a permission slip for school, any bic lying around would do.  But when she signed something important, she pulled a red leather sleeve from her purse.  Out of that sleeve came the most beautiful gold Cross pen.  This was important, this signature meant something, it needed the appropriate pen.

When I graduated high school, I had a diploma, wore a cap and gown, and celebrated with friends.  But when my mother gave me my own gold Cross pen, I knew my life had changed.  I was an adult, my signature meant something, I needed the appropriate pen.  When I graduated from college, she gave me another gold Cross pen.  Then I knew: I was on my own, I was making decisions for my life, I had to know when to use the appropriate pen.

* * *

After the first attempt at buying an apartment fell through, Lynn and I took some time off.  But before long, we knew we had to get back on the horse and start looking at apartments again.  So we hit the open house circuit and checked out some new possibilities.  One was fantastic.  It's in a new building, so everything is brand new.  There are two bathrooms (this becomes important when you're married), great kitchen appliances, and even a washer and dryer.  There's a roof deck with views on Manhattan, and the elevator goes all the way up for those of us who are too lazy to take stairs.  It's a great apartment.  And the most surprising part was that it is far more affordable than many of the other, older, apartments we've looked at.

We moved quickly, and made an offer.  It was accepted that same day.  Oh boy, I thought, here we are again with an accepted offer and needing to get to the contract phase.  This time, though, things went smoothly.  All the paperwork checked out and things were looking good.  Our lawyer worked out the contract with the seller's lawyer, and in just a few days we were set.

I brought the contract home from our lawyer's office so Lynn and I could sign it together.  We each signed with a gold Cross pen.

So Close, and Yet So Far

As happens with big changes in my life, I've been ignoring the ol' blog for a while.  It's been a particularly eventful holiday season and New Year!  I'll add more stories with time (maybe).

Lynn and I have been house-hunting.  Well, I guess you could say we've been causally browsing for over a year, stopping by open houses in our neighborhood on weekends.  Just before Christmas, we really started seriously looking—and finding.

We settled on a very nice apartment on Montague Street in our neighborhood of Brooklyn Heights.  It had two bedrooms, 1.5 baths, and was a duplex spread over two floors.  We loved the light, the feel, and were drooling over the space.  It seemed like a little two-story house, tucked away in a historic Queen Anne-style apartment building in the middle of our fantastic  neighborhood.  What could go wrong?

Lots, apparently.

First it was the price.  The sellers, in defiance of the current economy, the housing market, and their own broker's advice, set the price way too high.  We knew we could not afford it at their price, but we also knew it wasn't actually worth that price.  Or at the very least, this market would not support that price.

So, at the advice of our broker, we offered a significantly lower price.  To the sellers, it must have looked like a low-ball offer.  To us, it was the highest we could afford—and a stretch at that.  Initially, the sellers countered our offer with a number that didn't show any seriousness in negotiating at all.  After all, we knew, they had already turned down offers higher than ours.  We went back and said that our first offer really was our "best and final," and we were willing to walk away if they felt it was too low.  They accepted.

Thus began the rush to get into contract.  We had an inspection, the apartment passed with flying colors.  We had to look into the financial history of the building, which is a co-op, and do the due diligence there.  Here is where things fell apart.

A co-op, as most of you who don't live in NYC may now know, is different from a condominium situation.  In a condo, you own your apartment, it is your property.  In a co-op, you own a share in the "company" that owns the building.  Your share is proportional to the size of your apartment, and you own the permanent lease on your apartment.  With co-op buildings, the co-op board of directors also wields extensive powers over the building and its finances, so it is vital to check into the history of the board's behavior.

This particular co-op board took very good care of the building.  They also tried to take care of their residents by now raising the common charges.  But they did this on debt, acquiring a huge mortgage on the building, taking out a line of credit, and depleting their reserves.

And then there was the elevator.  Two years ago, the elevator was found to be in bad shape.  They could update it to the turn of $250,000 or perform several small maintenance repairs that would make it last another two years.  Well, those two years are over, and it's time to update the elevator.  Because the building has so much debt, and no reserves, that money has to come from the residents.  It was too much money for us.

We went back to the sellers, explained the extra expenses and offer an even lower price to off-set paying for the elevator.  They declined.  We moved on.  We sure learned a lot about the process, though.

And it definitely helped prepare us for the next apartment.  To be continued...

The Cass Gilbert Connection

I am by no means an architecture buff.  I enjoy a beautiful building as much as the next person, but am typically more interested in why it was built than how.  I've learned to discern the Federalist and Queen Anne brownstones in my neighborhood from the Victorian brownstones of Park Slope, and to identify some other large trends in architecture through time, but this again is because of their historical context.

Still, I find myself gravitating toward the Beaux-Arts and Neo-Gothic architectural styles, and to one of that era's star architects Cass Gilbert.  There's something about the optimism inherent in these grand structures, as if upstart America really could contribute to the vast architectural heritage of the world, that keeps drawing my eye.

It's through this that the Woolworth Tower has always been my favorite skyscraper in New York.  Completed in 1913 by Cass Gilbert, and paid for in cash by Frank Woolworth (all $13.5 million), it has always struck me as the most beautiful of of the major skyscrapers in New York.  And in a show of levity typical of Gilbert, there are little details hidden in plain site on the tower. There's a gecko scaling one face high up on the tower, for example, only visible with a good pair of binoculars and just the right viewing angle. Gilbert made beautiful buildings, and found a way to keep them fun as well.

When I first moved to 90 West Street, a stunning neo-Gothic building in its own right, one of the best features of my apartment was the view east to the Woolworth Tower.  I was surprised and excited to learn that 90 West was also one of Cass Gilbert's buildings.  Built it 1907, it was actually the precursor to the Woolworth Tower, Gilbert used it to test some of his Gothic stylings.  Like the Woolworth Tower after it, Gilbert played with the design of 90 West,  adding Gargoyles with his relatives' faces.  It was really through living in this building that I begun to learn more about Gilbert, and to appreciate his style.

I've since learned more random connections with Gilbert.  He was named for an ancestor of his, Lewis Cass.  Cass was governor of the Michigan territory (before it became a state), American Ambassador to France, US Senator for Michigan, and Secretary of State.  To understand his impact, I need only consider that my own mother lives just off of Cass Boulevard, and for many years worked in the Lewis Cass Building in Michigan's state capitol.  (In fact, there are a myriad of places named after him.)

In my travels, I've begun to pay more attention to buildings in particular.  And I still find myself drawn to Cass Gilbert's buildings across the country even without knowing about them.   The US Supreme Court Building, the state capitol of Minnesota, and many buildings around New York have all drawn my eye.  They are all Gilbert's.

Recently, I flew to Saint Louis to help launch a new Chapter of Mu Beta Psi.  One day, we went to the Saint Louis Zoo, which sits in Forest Park just down a hill from the Museum of Art.  I enjoyed the zoo, but kept looking up at the Museum.  My last day in the city I had some time to myself, so I went back to the park and walked around the Museum.  It felt so familiar.  I asked the gentleman at the information desk if he knew much about the building itself.  He replied, oh yes, it was built in 1904 for the World's Fair by Cass Gilbert.

Of course.

Now I find myself looking for them.  There are quite a few, but I will see as many as I can.

"Poor Little Rhode Island...."

While exploring "upstate" Connecticut during our anniversary weekend, Lynn and I drove to a small town just inside Rhode Island.  We had no particular purpose other than it was one of the two states east of the Mississippi River that I hadn't seen.

Westerly, Rhode Island was a fairly typical town.  But I kept thinking of my grandmother.  When I was kid spending time at my grandparents' house, she would often sing to herself while cleaning or cooking.  They were never songs I knew, but I loved hearing them and would follow her around the house listening.  I had to be careful and quiet, because she tended to stop and pay attention to me if she saw me.  One song I can still hear in her voice:

Poor little Rhode Island,
Smallest of the forty-eight!

I haven't seen my grandma in person for a long time, but it was nice to meet her in Rhode Island.

A Year is as a Day

I've always been fascinated by the perception of time passing.  I remember as a six-year-old being told that Christmas would come around next year.  Next year?  Whoa, that's 1/6th of my entire life, that's practically forever!  Talking with my grandparents, they speak of years as if they were days.  And when you're talking about 1/86th of a lifetime, it's easy to see how little time a year can be. 

Lynn and I celebrated our first year of marriage at the beginning of this month.  At turns it is by far the longest and the shortest of years.  So much has happened: we've moved, I took a new job, we've traveled far and wide, and adopted a cat—we've lived a full year. 

And yet, has it really been that long?  Has it really been an entire year since we gathered together with so many friends and family members?  There are some folks reading this very post who I haven't seen in a year, surely not a whole year has gone by.  I look at the ring on my finger.  It's a bit dinged up, turns out I'm not very kind to my hands.  But I still notice it, I still fiddle with it.  It still feels new.

It was with this mix of feelings about how much and how little time has passed that Lynn and I decided to spend the weekend of our first anniversary back in the area where we were married.  We stayed in the same hotel as our wedding weekend, and had dinner at the restaurant where our rehearsal dinner was held.  We even went up to visit the place where our ceremony was held and took a few pictures.

It put things in perspective.  A year.  Not a long year, not a short year, but a good year.  A year full of change and excitement, and not a small amount of struggle and learning.  A year in which we learned what it means to make a life from two, and from which we can go confidently into the next.  There will be a time when this whole year will seem like a day.  But it will always be a day worth remembering, full of years of good experiences.

Traveling Vicariously

A friend of mine is currently on a cross-country trip of a lifetime. Her office shut down, her Brooklyn lease expired, she bought a car and started driving. At the send-off party she had a little book for people to write suggestions in for destinations. Maybe she'll hit them all, maybe she'll find some little town somewhere and start a new life.

I've always loved to travel, and I do so whenever I can get enough free time and money simultaneously. But to really cut all ties to a home and set off across the country alone is both admirable and frightening. The kind of thing we only talk about doing.

As my friend swung up through New England, and west through Ontario, she found herself in my home state. Following her Twitter updates, I saw she was minutes away from my mother's house, and helped orchestrate a bed to sleep in that night. I suggested she head through da UP and got to Houghton, and sketched out a true Copper Country Cruisin' route that took her through many of the best sites of the Keweenaw.

The strange thing is that it made me feel...what? Is this homesickness? I can't say I've really felt it before, but I suddenly have this incredible longing to ride a bike around Milford. Or to build a bonfire on the shore of Lake Superior. Or to just drive long and far, through all of the familiar sights of a place that was once mine.

My friend, meanwhile, has crossed the Mississippi in Minnesota and is headed to "all points West." She blogs about her adventures here.

Lords of Slane, Keepers of the Paschal Fire

(Cross-posted from the Fleming Family Blog.)

Last month I spent a week wandering around Ireland. It was a bit of a fluke, really, I wanted to take a week off after finishing at one company and before starting at my current one. A few minutes' search on Orbitz.com, and I found surprisingly cheap tickets to Dublin. Ireland is a beautiful country, and full of vivid and amazing stories. "History should not be bogged down with facts," one gentleman told me, "It's the stories that matter."

Along the way, I visited Slane, a small village north of Dublin in the Boyne Valley. I did not know before-hand the significance of the place, as it was one stop of a historical tour focusing on the Celtic culture. But when we arrived at the Hill of Slane, the tallest hill for ten miles in any direction, my guide patted me on the shoulder and said, "Mr. Fleming, welcome back."

Any Flemings in the US that trace their heritage to Ireland today are descended from two branches of the Fleming Family that came from Flanders via Scotland (where the name persisted as Flemming).

In 1370, following the invasion of Henry II of England, the Barony of Slane was created and given as a reward to Richard and Thomas Fleming for their part in the war. They, and their descendants the Fleming Family, were Lords of Slane for three hundred years. (The other branch of Flemings became viscounts of Longford.) Loyal to king James II, they lost the Barony of Slane when James fell to William of Orange in 1691. Slane castle stood on the Hill of Slane until the Flemings built a newer castle in the valley below.

But there's another story about the Hill of Slane that, although largely apocryphal, is dear to the hearts of many Irish Catholics. My guide told me the following story that day.

Saint Patrick, perhaps the most famous Irishman of all, was not Irish. He was a Roman, born in the British territory to a wealthy famliy living on the west coast of England. The Romans never conquered Ireland, leaving it to the Celts. When he was a teenager, he was captured by Celtic raiders and taken to Ireland as a slave. He spent six years there before escaping back to Britain and joining the Church. As an adult, he saw that Christianity wasn't doing so well in Ireland, the missionaries didn't have the cultural experience he had to really communicate with the Celts about Jesus.

Patrick knew the Celts, he knew their beliefs, and he knew what was important to them. So he returned to Ireland on a mission of his own, and in the springtime went to the Hill of Slane.

Ten miles away rose the Hill of Tara, the seat of the High King of Celtic Ireland. Every spring, around the vernal equinox, a great celebration was held on Tara. The High King himself would light a ceremonial fire that would burn for days, and all other fires throughout Ireland were to be put out during this festival. Storytellers from all clans traveled to Tara so they could bring news of the festival back to every corner of Ireland.

Patrick knew this, and so began the biggest publicity stunt Ireland had ever known. As the festival began, and the Tara fire was blazing as the only fire in sight, the revelers saw another light struck on Slane. Patrick had lit a fire well within view of the King's fire, and even bigger. The King was furious at this defiance, and immediately dispatched his army to Slane to destroy any rivals they might find there.

The army marched across Boyne Valley, the best and strongest warriors who served the King, some 200 to 20,000 (depending on who tells the story). When they arrived ready to fight an invading army, they found only Patrick, unarmed but running right at them down the hill. They were so taken aback by this show of bravery that they completely failed to kill him. Instead, he convinced them to take him back to the King to explain himself. Patrick told the King about Jesus, about a God so powerful that Patrick knew he need not fear the King's army. The King was impressed, and not only allowed Patrick to live, but allowed him to continue his mission throughout Ireland. (Of course, he was greatly helped by all the storytellers present at Tara who also told the story far and wide.)

Eventually a monastery was built on the Hill of Slane, the ruins of which you can see in the pictures above. Every year at Easter, a paschal fire is lit on the spot where Patrick lit his fire. For three hundred years, the eldest Baron Fleming lit the fire, proclaiming the light of Christianity to the Boyne Valley.

Things Happen So Fast

It certainly does seem that way, doesn't it? So much has changed in just a few short weeks. I left my old job to start at a new company. It was odd, having been there for two and a half years, to leave all the people I've come to rely on every day. But the time was right. The new job is pretty fantastic, and as I'm settling into it I'm liking it more and more.

In between the end of one era and the beginning of the next, I went to Ireland. Why Ireland? Cheapest flights I could find. My friend Andy happened to be visiting us when I made the decision, and as luck would have it he could take a week off too. So we went, with no plans, and very little knowledge of the country or geography. It was great. We found wonderful things to do, fantastic people, and lots of great beer. Maybe one of these days I'll write more about it. But I doubt it. There's just never enough time in the day.

Things happen so fast.

Lynn and I, in an attempt to curb our parents' calls for an expanded family, adopted a kitten. We're calling him Louis, after Satchmo, of course. He's an all-too-adorable little tabby cat who's fearless around people and loves to cuddle—that is, when he's not tearing something apart.

Now that the summer is stretching out ahead, we're hoping things will calm down a bit. We have no plans this weekend, and that's a welcome change.

Sin é

I'm in Cork, Ireland, on a week-long trip through this country with my friend Andy. Yes, we do confuse people wherever we go. This is an amazing country. Not only is it exactly as beautiful as everyong, and especially the Irish, describe, but there's a very unique kind of history here. They aren't the Celtic nation because they were the first Celts, rather they were the last to survive. They aren't an independent Irish nation because they wanted it, rather they fought for it--and in some ways, still are. All of this comes together to build a sense of identity I haven't seen anywhere else. I've known the Irish are a proud people, but I haven't understood why until now. I feel a little more connected to my name, though my branch of the Flemings have been in America for too many generations to have held onto much more.

I'll have to write more about the trip later.

How Does My Garden Grow?

This weekend, a couple friends came to visit up from Baltimore. We were hoping they'd help us pick out some flowers for the garden, but they jumped right in and together we completely over-hauled the entire back yard. Saturday morning, unusually warm for April, we all walked up to the farmers' market in front of Borough Hall. We picked out some hanging baskets, a flat of Impatiens (which I had always assumed to be spelled and pronounced "Inpatient's") and a few other brightly colored blossoms. A quick stop to get some spades, gloves, and soil, and we were all set.

Back at the apartment garden we began digging out the seemingly unending tangle of roots hiding just below the surface. Throughout the day we rooted, weeded, finished a red brick border around the patio, cut back the vines growing up the walls, cleaned out excess dirt, planted all our flowers, cleaned off all the patio furniture we inherited, and enjoyed a beautiful day with excellent company. It was a remarkable amount of work, but we now have a beautiful garden to enjoy all summer.

We celebrated by firing up the grill for the first time, and making a feast of brats, burgers, salad, corn, and asparagus. Dark by then, we still ate outside basking in the elation that comes from hard work done well with good friends.

Frankie Manning

Frankie Manning died today, at age 94. He was the heart and soul of the swing dancing scene. Inventor of air steps, pioneer of the dance for two eras, and inspiration to thousands of dancers all over the world.

I was lucky to have taken a few workshops with him years ago, and to have been a part of the NYC scene. You could always find Frankie out in New York dancing, not a care in the world but what fun step he could still do after all these years.

Tonight we celebrate his life in the way he would have insisted--dancing to his favorite band, the Harlem Renaissance Orchestra at Swing46.

Back from Boston

Watching the marathon was surprisingly good. I had sort of figured I would wander around Boston until I had a chance to see my uncle run past and that would be it. Instead, I ended up staying along the rail on the course the entire time until he came by. It was fascinating to watch all the runners, 25,000 in total, come through. Even more fascinating were the variety of attitudes. Some were weary, some determined, but many were downright celebratory. A large number of the runners were smiling and waving to the crowd. One guy even did a cart-wheel to the cheers of the spectators. I was amazed at the amount of positive energy, and that made it a lot of fun to watch.

I know, being a New Yorker, that it's my duty to downplay Boston as the quaint little town it is. But I have to say, when it comes to the subway, I found it to be pretty lacking. From where we were on the race course (near Boston College), we took the green line into the Back Bay area where the finish line was. Outside of "downtown" this train is on the street level, and it stops for every traffic light and any pedestrians who feel like standing in front of it. It took us more than 45 minutes to travel a distance of four and a half miles. There were two women jogging along the street parallel to our train, and they pulled ahead of us at each stop for about six stations before they were so far ahead that I could no longer see them. Boston, you need express trains.

The attempt to live blog the marathon turned out alright. I couldn't get the "Publish" button to appear on my blackberry, so I had to create new posts instead of editing the first post I created with updates. And as my battery wore down quickly during the day, posts went from short narratives to as few words as I could use. Once I find a better delivery method, and another event worth of the effort, I'll try again.

Live Blogging the Boston Marathon

I'm travelling to Boston to support my uncle running in the Boston Marathon. I'm going to try something new and see if I can live blog it from my blackberry over on the family blog: Boston Marathon

Leinie Berry Weiss for the Summer

Further evidence that, indeed, everything will be alright out in Brooklyn. I've discovered a huge beer distributing store on Court Street that carries Leinenkugel. Some of my most fond memories of Houghton involved Monday nights when a group of us would go to Pilgrim River Steakhouse and have steak burgers and pitchers of Leini (usually the honey weiss). It was always a great start to a week.

In the summer, Leinie had a berry weiss that always hit the spot. Some friends of mine even had it at their wedding. Now that I've found Leinie in Brooklyn, it looks like it's going to be a great summer of grilling in our backyard garden.

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Brooklyn

The new apartment feels more like home every day. One week after moving in, we're putting the last few pictures up on the walls, and looking toward what we can plant in the garden. We've met all the neighbors in our building, and they're all friendly and welcoming. Our neighbors upstairs even left us a bottle of wine!

The neighborhood could hardly be better. Turning left from our front door takes you into the heart of Brooklyn Heights with it's townhouses and tree-lined streets. Turning right takes you to downtown Brooklyn where nearly every subway train comes through. From there, Court and Smith streets run south for miles lined with restaurants, bars, and shops of all kinds. We're right at the crossroads of history and convenience.

For the first time in a while, it's truly exciting to be living here again.