City Life

Walking Through Fringeland, Part II

Ready to walk the plank?

Poor Cinderella, has to find another way around.

Edge of reservoir

New maintenance truck driver?

Someone left a stash.

And someone else found it.

I wonder if a fairy is under there.

Hello there.

Why yes, there are actual ball fields in Central Park.

Crocuses peaking out.

I love this little bridge.

The northern end of the park gets steeper, more hills and stairs to navigate.

I’ll take a park facing 3 BR with a study, please.

Peace ahead.

Above were just a few of the hidden paths, nooks and crannies. Central Park is 843 acres, there’re a lot of them. The set below are from just outside the park, on my way home.

There are 20 “gates” into the park, named in the 1860s, but most didn’t have the names carved into the stone until this century.

Watch out, the tree roots under the sidewalks don’t make for a smooth stroll.

I’m hoping this repair isn’t finished, where are the cobblestones?

I don’t know what causes this type of bulge in a tree trunk, but it looks amazing.

Closeup of bulge.

Looks like it belongs in a magical forest, no?

Some of the buildings along the park look like churches, some actually are.

A little color.

I’d like to stand up there.

Aaah, almost home.

Snotting Against the Wind

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e2efTlU36Tw

It isn’t raining or gray and I’ve been so damned sedentary since I hurt my back that I needed to go for a walk this morning. Dropped Flower Child off at her art class, and headed into Central Park with my camera. A nice day for a walk–you’ll all be relieved to know I wore my sensible shoes, with support, without heels. Glad I had a hat and was wearing layers because it is windy out there. Just shy of cold when the sun goes behind a cloud. As expected, it was crowded with bikers, runners, kids, dogs, bird watchers and photographers. But one of the nice things about Central Park is how big it is, if you don’t go to the popular, touristy spots, you can still find some peace.

Except for the two runners who were stopped right where I wanted to take some photos of the newly seeded ball fields. One even treated me to the sight and sound of her blowing her nose onto the ground. You know, one finger laid across one nostril, lean forward and blow out the other one. I’m sure someone will tell me how it’s necessary, you don’t carry tissues to go running. You know what? It’s fucking gross. I’ll bet she had her cell phone tucked in somewhere, she could throw a few Kleenex into the case. By the way hon, if you’re reading, you might want to get checked for a sinus infection.

I would love to photograph the playgrounds, but they’re rarely empty, and it’s creepy to stand there and take photos of other people’s kids. I like to get shots of birds, but that rarely works out for me, I don’t have great photography skills. If you’re a longtime follower, you might know I’m obsessed with trees, especially the patterns of the root growths, and this time of year, just beginning to bud, when you can see the shapes and shadows made by the branches. Plus, I find trees to be cooperative subjects, they rarely blink or move at the moment I press the shutter. I also shoot a lot of the various bodies of water. They’re always moving, but that makes them interesting to me, even the blurs. I took a lot of pictures, I’ll probably break this up into two or three posts.

This guy stood long enough for me to take 4 shots.

One day I’d like to trace whose roots are whose.

Winter casualty

So serene, nature in the city

under a bridge

Whoops

Flowers are starting to poke up

These little white ones are so delicate.

Over the reservoir, you can see their feathers being blown by the wind.

Looking east across the reservoir.

Heads up, falling seed pods.

Back corner of the tennis courts, this tree wants a ball.

I love this. Because I’m weird, ok?!

If this trunk could talk…

I liked this effect, the one tree in soft green buds, the rest still gray/brown with the top of the light post showing.

One of many little ponds, on the west side.

When I was pregnant with Man Child, I used to dream he was born and jumped into the lake at Central Park, but I couldn’t help him because I was being given a ticket for letting him go swimming.

Looking northwest.

Quack.

Not so secret passage.

I was happy I was able to get shots of this little waterfall, despite the three kiddos climbing on the rocks.

Imagining homeless coming here to cool off on hot August nights.

Look, I can zoom!

No ducks taking this ride.

Love the algae covered rocks.

How cool are these? I *think* they’re buckled up tree roots, maybe they push up because of the water?

This is the tree I think they’re attached to.

Like tree joints. How many elbows and knees does one tree have, anyway?

All sharp angles on these branches.

Gray Skies and Social Media Wallflowers

After a teaser of spring yesterday, this morning is pure damp and gloom.

This week I thought quite a bit about social media, the concept of “platforms” and followings, blogging and tweeting. Mostly tweeting, because so far it’s the thing I’m having the hardest time catching the rhythm of.

I keep saying this, but I just don’t get it. I hop on dutifully most days, but usually end up feeling like the girl who needs electrolysis and a better girdle at a 1961 dance. There are the cool kids, the nerdy kids, the popular rah-rah we’re running your student government kids, and the wallflowers. Then there are the spammers. Please, for the love of all that is holy, stop it! I will usually follow links from new followers, check out blogs, etc. But if you’re tweeting multiple times a day for days, weeks, months on end about how I should buy your book, just stop it. I will start to remember your name/title of book, but only to make a note not to purchase it. But they say it’s a good thing to do, have a Twitter account and tweet, so I keep trying. I favorite, I retweet, I reply, occasionally I send out a tweet. Somehow it isn’t shocking when no one cares what I ate for dinner. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s not going to be the thing that gets me/my writing noticed.

Is blogging going to help me? I have no clue. As I query, some agents want to know about “web presence,” a more common term than platform when querying fiction. My stats won’t make anyone drool, but hopefully won’t make them cringe, either. If anyone looks closely enough, I think it could help that I tend to have long term followers who are engaged (thank you!). Maybe an agent or two will like the content, think I’m someone they’d be interested in working with. Or *gasp* become a follower. Maybe not. Maybe they’ll click onto the blog and be disgusted by my appalling language. (If so, they probably wouldn’t be into my fiction, either.) Maybe they’ll think, “Wow, this woman is a fucking fruitcake, I’m steering clear.”

If you hadn’t noticed, I like blogging. Mrs Fringe isn’t an overnight sensation, but I’ve got Fringelings, and gather more on a weekly, sometimes daily basis. Many can relate to that feeling of living on the fringe. As a wannabe writer, I should be keeping a blog about writing. Yawn. Pretty sure I’ve said this before, but I find most blogs on writing to be tedious. Writers, their individual lives and processes? Interesting. A good blog with an thoughtful or entertaining voice will compel me to follow links and click the little buy button for a book. Does this make me a voyeur?

No longer needed (Photo credit: eric.r)

Could be. Blogging lets me ramble with no pressure. I look at the blogs that hit it big, and the blogs that barely get any views, and sometimes, not always, but sometimes, it’s hard to see why one way or the other. My buddy kk blogged about this yesterday. I enjoy different bloggers and blogs, like making connections through reading and commenting. I don’t read and comment as frequently as I did when I started. Honestly, it gets harder to do the more followers I have, and I apologize to those whose blogs I’m not stopping by often enough. Every view, every like, every comment is important and valuable to me, thank you. It’s a process, I’m learning the curve. So I’m saying to kk and anyone else trying to figure out this blogging thing, relax. Figure out what you most enjoy blogging about, the voice that feels the most comfortable.

It’s Friday again. Not sure if Fatigue will come for Friday Night Madness, his pup has been sick. But if he does, we’ll have dinner and our usual routine discussing the trials and tribulations of being a wannabe in New York, trying to make it; one pen/voice/monologue/dance routine trying to hold firm and be noticed among millions. Funny, because I grew up here, pretty much always lived here, I always knew I wasn’t special by virtue of being a wannabe, having a dream I didn’t want to give up. Maybe the internet and social media have done the same for everyone everywhere.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qm6IJIVWLT4

You Talkin’ To Me?

Put up yer dukes! (Photo credit: sirenbrian)

It seems like most everyone I know and see is either on edge, depressed, or downright cranky. Maybe it’s the weather, maybe it’s the beginning of Lent and people are adjusting to the lack of whatever they’ve given up, maybe it’s just me, like channeling like and all that.

For all the bad rap New York has had over the years, it’s a pretty civil town. I rarely see fights or arguments among the over 16 crowd–excluding drunken slurs.

Yesterday I saw three. One on my way to the subway, after dropping off Flower Child. One man was standing with his kiddo, yelling and cursing at a woman trying to catch a cab with her kiddo. Then, as I was getting on the train, another woman getting off the train was loudly berating a man standing by the doors for not getting out of the way quickly enough. Then in the afternoon, two men were all in each other’s faces. These weren’t young men or kids, these were two grown-ass men on a block filled with multi-million dollar brownstones, standing in front of a fancy juice bar getting up in arms about who pushed into who as they rushed down the street.

Is it something in the air?

Smog Over Louisville And Ohio River, September 1972 (Photo credit: The U.S. National Archives)

I went about my day, yoga, grocery shopping, picked up a bottle of wine and cooked. Husband got home early, Fatigue came over for Friday Night Madness, and we had dinner. Afterwards, Fatigue and I went out for coffee, chatted about budgets, dreams, and blues, and then each went home to walk our respective beasts.

On my way back into the building with the dogs, I noticed a guy a little bit behind me, also seemed to be on his way in. I held the door, and then he lagged, so I let go. Sometimes people don’t like to be that close to the dogs, sometimes someone wants to finish a conversation on their cell before entering the building, sometimes they aren’t actually coming inside at all, just waiting to meet someone. Whatever.

Now I’m waiting for the elevator, the same guy walks over, maybe 8 feet away from me, and he’s talking. I assume he’s talking on the phone. I give a half nod, turn back to watching the elevator numbers decrease. Then I realize he’s (now? the whole time?) talking to me.

“Don’t pretend to hold the door, lady. If you don’t want to hold it, fine, but if you’re holding it, hold it, don’t pretend. I don’t need that shit.” His tone is completely conversational. And then he keeps rambling.

WTF?

For the record, we’re talking about a very flimsy door, one of those little plastic and aluminum things that are put up in front of buildings and stores in NY in the winter to block some wind, try to save on heating costs. This is a healthy looking guy, certainly younger than me. I might even go so far as to think of him as a strapping young man. Ooookay. But I know not all disabilities are visible, who knows what story someone has?

At this point I’m not even annoyed, just mildly amused at finding myself in this bizarro moment. I’m not looking for a fight, I recognize his face as someone I run into every so often, not a big deal. I say something mildly neutral and conciliatory along the lines of, “hey, sorry, thought you were behind me.”

I expect this to end there. Nope. He keeps going, and is getting louder. Now it’s taking more to hold my beasts, because Big Senile Dog is still alert enough to get testy if he perceives a threat. My patience, and my sense of humor, are finished.

I’d like to tell you I was calm and mature to the end. When he started cursing me, I had enough. One clear “fuck you” from the frayed tips of my Brooklyn roots. Calm but not mature. Maybe this means the yoga is starting to have an effect.

Sometimes You Just Have to Say

Serious in an entirely different way.

Fuck it. And put on your favorite winter boots.

And go out, after searching the internet for the most steeply discounted tickets you can find. When I was a kid, we used to to go to the theater on a semi-regular basis. Not like we went every month, but once or twice a year. Tickets were less costly then, with discounts you could even get good seats. Hell, if I really liked the show, I would go more than once. Maybe because of the show itself, maybe because I loved a particular lead, or maybe because someone else was playing the lead and I wanted to see them. Now? Hah! The thought of spending money to see something already seen is obscene.

Les Mis is coming back to Broadway. Flower Child’s absolute favorite. I’d love to get tickets and take her, but those tickets are way out of reach, and will be for years. I hoped for Wicked, but no discounts there either. Mrs Fringe needs a steep discount. 20% isn’t going to cut it. Anything Disney is out of the question. I know, many are well done, beautiful–but it’s so rare for us to go, just no.

Found three tickets that might or might not have caused some vertigo and a nosebleed and broke out the Metrocard.

Neon and tourists

Running since 1988, and this was the first time I’ve seen it.

Yes, it needs to be said. Pizza is sold by the slice in most places in NYC

One way to tell NYers from tourists is their pace. NYers walk quickly. Husband rarely walks more than up the block to see his mother, but when he walks he’s fast. This was my only night out in I don’t know how long, I think it’s been 3?4? years since I’ve seen a show. I took my time. Sure, he was a block ahead of me–but I had the print out to pick up the tickets. Another way to tell tourists from natives is the camera hanging from their necks. Well, see, I’ve got this blog….So perhaps I looked like a tourist last night. I don’t mind.

I love live theater, and wish I could go every month. There truly is something magical, I think it’s in the theater houses themselves, in the plaster and gold paint, the chandeliers and hundred year old exit signs.

I was thinking opera glasses would have been a perfect accessory. Do they still make/sell those?

Yes, these not so little touches are everything.

Beautiful, isn’t it?

I would like this over my front door.

The show, of course, was lovely. Flower Child gripped her armrests throughout (we were pretty high up for sure) but loved the music, the costumes, the singing, the trip to the lobby during intermission and the peek at the orchestra seats, lol.

A few photos of Times Square as we walked back to the subway–and perhaps an explanation for why Mrs Fringe can’t tell a star from a photo flare from a smudge on the camera screen. It’s bright in the city–even at 9:30pm on a mid-winter night.

Dumb Dogs

Innocent, I tell ya–and dumber than a box of rocks.

Everyone talks about how smart dogs are. I don’t get it, and I’m a dog lover. I know, I know, your dog is brilliant, it’s just my dog. I’ve had multiple dogs over the years, and between friends’ dogs and dog walking, have known many, many others very well. Mixed breeds, “designer” breeds (aka mutts), rescue dogs, purebreds.

I think my understanding of “smart” is too limited, I only comprehend it as it applies to people. And as intelligence is applied to people, dogs aren’t very smart. They’re cute, loving, protective, smooshable, eager to please, but not intelligent.

Some dogs care a lot about pleasing their owners, keeping us happy. These are often the dogs considered the smartest, because they learn the most commands. Then there are the food motivated dogs, who will do anything in the hopes of a treat. Food motivated dogs are also among the dumbest, because they will eat anything that could be food, once held food, might once have sat in the same garbage bag as food.

Yesterday I was walking a dog, and we stopped for a light. Dog starts rooting in a snowbank. Fine, lots of dogs have fun with the snow, like to roll in it, burrow their snouts in it, eat it. The light changes, we cross the street. Get to the other side, and I notice the dog has something out of his mouth. Hmmm. I pay attention, especially if I know the dog is one likely to eat stuff off of the street, but it does occasionally happen. Is that his collar, did it come off? No, collar is still on. My general rule of thumb is not to stick my hand into any dog’s mouth if it isn’t my dog. Dogs really don’t like it when you stick your hand in their mouth. I don’t care how friendly the dog is. If he/she thinks you’re trying to pull a tasty prize out of their mouth, they’re likely to bite. Because they’re dogs. I’m paid to pick up dog shit and give the dog some exercise, some company and petting, maybe food and water, not offer myself as a chew toy.

I determine this thing hanging from the dog’s mouth is definitely a strap of some sort, with a small metal loop at the end. Looks like the kind of thing used to attach babies’ children’s mittens. Crap. Can’t let the dog eat a strap. And metal! I tell the dog to drop it, leave it, try offering a treat instead. No dice. What the hell is this dog doing? He isn’t chewing or biting, he’s…sucking. Yes, the dog was sucking on the pacifier at the other end of the strap. Sigh.

Pacifier (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Yeah, yeah, got it all away from Einstein and threw it away safely.

Then last night, Little Incredibly Dumb Dog started acting even weirder than usual. Jumping and barking on Man Child (she’s decided he’s the one who should take care of her needs). We see no problem, she seems ok, then curls up and goes to sleep. Fifteen minutes later she’s squatting on the living room floor. Umm, NO! I pick her up and bring her to the pad. By the second nugget the problem was apparent.

Flower Child has very, very long hair. She doesn’t want any hairs in her brush, ever. This leaves me finding hairs wherever she might have been when she picked up the brush. She does try to remember to throw it away, but sometimes, well, sometimes. Little Incredibly Dumb Dog thinks anything produced by any of our bodies is delicious. She races to the bedroom when Flower Child wakes up each the morning, to steal those yummy used tissues out of the bag next to the bed.

So that left my little fluff ball, working hard to only semi-successfully evacuate a gut full of doggie gumbo and knitted by her intestinal tract hair. Yes, yes, I helped her, all better now. Emergency bath of her back end.

Tell me again how smart these beasts are.

No Dog Poop (Photo credit: Sweet One)

Brain Freeze

We had a sizable but not crazy snowstorm again the other day. The snow itself was wet and dense, beautiful.

oops, don’t forget how slippery the steps down to the subway become.

All so pretty, everyone was out taking photos, talking about how the city looked like a fairy tale.

But then, Tuesday night, we got more snow. By Wednesday morning the falling snow turned into sleet. All freaking day. That lovely, heavy snow became piles of slush with a thick layer of ice.

It’s great that this is a walking city, but it isn’t easy to navigate when the sewers can’t handle the amount of dirty, packed, snow and slush. The corners and curb cuts become freezing lakes. You think you’re stepping onto a snow pile, and then your foot sinks through a pile of icy muck and you’re shin deep. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to navigate the streets with a stroller, and yet, every year when I see those messy corners I think about how grateful I am that I’m not trying to find the one spot you can push through–usually about halfway up the street, exactly when 5 cars are coming through. On my way to pick up Flower Child the other day, there was a woman with a big stroller at the bottom of the stairs, getting ready to carry it up.

Ugh. I remember those days. Not fun in the best weather, let alone when those metal steps are icy and people are crowding to get in or out of the subway as quickly as possible. I helped her carry the stroller. Not a big deal, not a random act of kindness, just common courtesy. Her look of gratitude made me sad, I wish helping someone in this type of scenario was the rule, not the exception.

Yesterday I went out to walk a dog in the sleet. The streets were so iced over it was all I could do to focus on staying upright. Add in the super dooper hood of my parka that blocks my peripheral vision, and I wasn’t noticing anything. Heard a thud as I walked towards a local bodega, but really, I barely noticed, just trying to get to the sidewalk before the snow plows buried me in the ever rising snowbank against the curb. Frankly, everything was so muffled through my layers and I was concentrating so hard on not busting my ass, I’ve not sure I would know I was hit by a snow plow until I was snorting slush.

Picked up the dog, went past the bodega again, now add in trying not to fall on the ice with an overexcited dog pulling towards the park. Drunk guy on a cell phone, “No, they’re being robbed right now. It doesn’t matter if I’m drunk. I’m telling you, now. Send a car from the blahblah precinct.” Oh, New York.

By this morning, the streets look a bit less magical.

Thank You Internetz

and the Coca-Cola company. For turning over the rock, and allowing light to shine on the racism that is alive and all too

Statue of liberty (Photo credit: rakkhi)

well in America.

I didn’t watch the Super Bowl, didn’t see the commercial that caused waves in our amber GMO enriched grain until this morning. If I was a gambler, I’d put money on the idea that many of the same people shitting themselves over a Coke commercial featuring people of color! language other than English! would consider me suspect, not a real American for the simple fact that I’m not a football fan, not a sports fan at all.

That’s what America’s all about, right? The Pilgrims came here so they could chase a ball and drink beer without any pesky brown people, or hearing anything other than the dulcet tones of English. Such a pure language, developed in a magical place without any influences from any other nasty, discordant languages. Mmm hmmm.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not too highbrow for football. I was annoyed there was no new episode of The Real Housewives of Atlanta last night–I assume because they didn’t think they’d get enough viewers. I know, I know, RHoA, more brown people. Black women. If it makes you feel better, dear racists, I found that out after eating a slice of apple pie. My dessert, after a dinner of arroz con habichuelas.

At this point, I don’t know if I’m more angry, sad, or disgusted. I do know I wish we were a smarter country. Smart enough for everyone here to understand we are a nation built on the backs of immigrants, after stealing the land from the Native Americans already living here. Guess they didn’t count, since they didn’t speak English. Guess what? You, in your racist spouting household probably have traditional meals included in your pure American Thanksgiving dinner that are actually throwbacks to your family’s heritage. Potato salad? German. Pasta? Italian. Butter cookies? Norwegian. Corn? Beans? Squash? The three sisters are Native American, and you should stop serving all three because Native Americans certainly aren’t what you mean when you talk about real Americans. And I’ve got another little surprise for you, all the rhetoric you’re spewing, about these Mexicans/Domincans/Haitians/Koreans/fillintheblankins, you know, the crap about not learning English, not becoming American enough for your taste, their strange foods, the way they’re taking your jobs and your wimmenz…not original or new. The same tired fearful and fear mongering lines have been spouted for two centuries of immigration. I’m very sorry to tell you, the good old days weren’t what you think they were.

English: A Turkish immigrant in New York (1912). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I wish we were smart enough to understand that we are not an isolationist nation and never were. I wish we were smart enough to understand that instead of trying to fit everyone into a cracked mold that’s a figment of stultified imaginations, we need to move forward, leave this nonsense behind. I wish we were smart enough to understand that the affordable air travel, internet and cell phones have brought us more than resort vacations, Candy Crush, and sexting. We are living in a global economy. Guess who’s going to get ahead in a global economy? Those who are able to respect cultures other than the one they grew up in; those who speak more than one language, those who aren’t terrified by the sight of someone who has different skin color, eye shape, hair texture, religious beliefs, clothing or customs than their own. Those who don’t vomit hatred because their sacred game has been tainted by nothing.

That’s right, I said it. Nothing. You’re up in arms because the ridiculously priced commercials selling shit you don’t need during a game dared to show America as it is, not your fantasy of what it should be.

I just got off of the train. On the subway I hear English, spoken with a broad number of American accents. I hear English spoken with accents from Ireland, England, New Zealand, Pakistan, Guyana, Australia, South Africa, Ghana, Jamaica, Zimbabwe, Kenya, Papa New Guinea. I hear Spanish, Italian, French, German, Hebrew, Arabic, Tagalog, Chinese, Korean, Japanese, Tagalog, Portuguese, Hindi, Vietnamese, Yiddish, Polish, Serbo-Croatian, languages from Scandinavia and languages from Africa. I don’t know who was born here, who’s an immigrant–documented or undocumented–who’s a tourist here to pump thousands of dollars into our economy. Shocking though this might be, I don’t care. It’s beautiful to my ears, part of being an American in New York.

I’ve spent quite a bit of time in New England, including the more rural areas where it’s truly rare to see a person of color or hear a language other than English. Also beautiful, also part of America. I’ve spent time down South, where outside of the major cities you don’t hear as many different languages, but still a few, and see many people of color. Beautiful. I’ve spent time in the Southwest, where there are more Native Americans, and I heard bits of languages rarely if ever heard in NYC. Beautiful. Time in the Pacific Northwest, where I heard more Norwegian words and influences than I hear in the east, heard languages and saw faces originating from Alaskan Native cultures. Beautiful. To me, that’s what makes America. It’s vast, our population is huge and mixed, influences from all over the world are seen, heard, and felt in our in language, music, food, and clothing. My America isn’t more or less American than yours.

I want to be clear, when you say things like “I don’t mean you,” you do. You mean my children, my family, my friends, my neighbors. When my kid is chosen for a job over you or yours, it isn’t and won’t be because of looks or last name. It will be because he has always and continues to work his ass off, speaks three languages, knows how to be respectful and appreciative of all cultures and focus on commonalities in our global economy.

I’m not a politician, not a sociologist or anthropologist, not an academic, not in marketing or advertising. I’m not a mover or shaker in any circle, no impressive degrees, haven’t traveled the world, really not that smart. A plain old gal living on the fringe. But I know the commercial that prompted this latest round of bullshit has nothing to do with anything you’re whining about. It’s about the Coca-Cola company wanting to reach the broadest possible audience, so the next time you’re in front of a display in the store, choosing between Coke and Pepsi, you spend your dollars on Coke. And I will. Or I would, if I drank soda–or pop, or coke, depending on what region of the US you’re in.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A8iM73E6JP8

What Big Stones You Have, Mrs Fringe

A rock, an island 😉

While getting ready to take Flower Child to art class this morning, I thought about the weather being nicer than it has been, I didn’t have to wear the megaboots, a couple of hours to myself…I’m a rebel, I have big ones– I’ll take the camera, and go into Central Park, take some pictures. I didn’t talk myself out of it, didn’t think about the fact that warmer doesn’t = warm, didn’t think about being tired, maybe I’d be better off just sitting on the couch and zoning out. I remembered to take the camera.

I didn’t remember to check if the camera battery was charged, and I didn’t think about a warmer day meaning the paths would be muddy and icky. So much like the rocks of Central Park, my stones aren’t quite as natural and rugged as they first appear.

Most of the rocks in Central Park were deliberately chosen and placed in the plans.

With my comfy old barely more than slippers squishing when they weren’t slipping and the red battery alert flashing, I figured I’d walk anyway, until the battery completely died.

Nope, doesn’t make me want to run.

The mainstay wildlife of the city, unimpressed by rising real estate prices or the polar vortex, they’re staying and they’re eating.

Sparrow?

These guys were finding plenty to eat.

The reservoir looked perfect, I wish had that damn back-up battery with me.

More than half frozen

Birds going wild.

This blue jay? made me think of my wanna be writing career. Out of season, he was loud, I stalked him from tree to tree, could see him way up high but every time I raised my camera he took off again. I squinted and got this one shot of his tail feathers way, way above me.

The last shot before the camera completely shut down.

Friday Whimper

Remember my last post, focusing on what’s been good? Fuck that. Somehow the three days since then have been 83 days in real time. Just tell me when I can go meet Fatigue for Friday Night Madness. In fact, I think I might splurge. Skip the food and just spend all my dollars on a Kwak. Because it’s delicious and makes me feel special, that’s why.

pauwel kwak (Photo credit: [puamelia])

It is Friday, that’s the good news. Tonight, Fatigue will tell me about his acting class and his singing practice. He will ask me about writing, and I will tell him about fixing-to-get-ready to query. Then we will both contemplate, strategize, and ramble about how much is subjective, and analyze the week to find the bright and hopeful spots. And of course, dog poop. My beasts, his beasts, and any other beasts we walk.

I will remember that Loehmann’s is going out of business. This is a big deal to me. When I shop, I shop the discount stores. Filene’s is gone, Daffy’s is gone, what’s left? There’s Century 21, but their stuff is all higher end, so for me I can buy a splurge piece there, not replace my blown-out-in-the-knee jeans. TJ Maxx, but I rarely find anything in there, and most of what I do isn’t stuff that’s made to last. Yeah, yeah, I’m cranky today but I feel like this is another nail in the coffin of the working class. “You’re a peasant, it’s time you dress like one. How dare you want to wear something that isn’t lycra and polyester?”

And it’s just after the holidays, so it isn’t like I have any money to run in and see what they’ve got before they’re gone.

Goodbye, Loehmann’s

I’ll miss you

Together we will moan and groan about the state of the union, the dearth of common sense in politics, and–depending on how far into my beer I am at that point–I will likely rage about this case, which thankfully is over now, but has been weighing heavily on my heart and my mind. It shouldn’t have been a case at all. I’ve been wanting to write a post centering on it, but I have to wait until I can think calmly and clearly. I’ll still be angry (wtf, politicians? Get your head out of my skirt!) but I want to make sense, whether or not readers agree.

It is warmer today, though I’d prefer that didn’t mean the pigeons were out and bold and noisy. They are, you know. They make this obnoxious whirring trilling noise that is the auditory equivalent of their splatter.

So yeah, just hanging in to get to the end of this hideously long week, hoping nothing goes wrong in my house or Fatigue’s to prevent our meeting up tonight.