"Yeah, he is dead."

The weirdness continued into the weekend. With Michael Jackson songs as an unintentional soundtrack, storm clouds formed over Manhattan on Friday evening and unleashed a burst of apocalyptic weather. My vantage point from a dive bar in Kips Bay, I watched as the deluge and winds soaked anyone who happened to be walking outside. Street signs rattled and people fled for cover. After the storm passed and four happy hour beers later, I stumbled from the bar to find Manhattan bathed in an eerie pink light. People all around me were looking to the skies and taking pictures of the strangest clouds I have ever seen in my life. The pictures online (and on my cellphone) really don't do the experience justice.



Then on Saturday, while I was at a dinner for a friend getting married, I got a series of jumbled texts from Ms. K.

Yeah, he is dead.

Followed by . . .

It made the worst noise. I think he's dead.

Who's dead??? I started freaking out and try to get more information. Then her original text came in.

Holy shit. Some guy just jumped out of a window on the parkway as I was walking by.

Turns out a man jumped (presumably jumped instead of fell) 15 stories to his death and landed four feet from Ms. K. Had he fallen just a little bit differently, he could have landed on Ms. K.

Speechless.

And then on Sunday we went to Pennsylvania for the first time since the accident. Thankfully the drive back was uneventful -- we even were on the West Side Highway as the Gay Pride fireworks were going off -- but I couldn't stop thinking of moment we got hit.

It's great to be alive!

"It's close to midnight and something evil's lurking in the dark"

What a bad week for the 1980s. Ed McMahon? Farrah Fawcett? Michael Jackson?? And speaking of Michael Jackson, his death has been giving me some weird childhood time warps. I've probably have heard the song Thriller more times in the last 24 hours than I have in the last decade. Thriller at the nail salon. Thriller blasting from cars with their windows down. Thriller at the gym. Suddenly it's 1984 all over again and I'm five years old, trembling from the scariness of Vincent Price's monologue at the end of the song.

So RIP, 1980s. I'm officially old. If Mr. T dies, then I don't know what I'll do.

"Are you going to write about this in your blog?"

"Are you going to write about this in your blog?"

Ms. K poses this question to me from time to time as if she's afraid that I'm going to say too much or poorly portray her to the four people who still read my blog. "Don't expose my secret shame!" she said when she recently brought home a kombucha culture to start making her own tea. She didn't want anyone to know about her one hippyish interest nor did she want anyone to know just how giddy she got when she brought the kombucha "baby" home to ferment. Guess the cat is out of the bag for that one.

Yesterday we played three successive rounds Trivial Pursuit and I crushed her. CRUSHED. This elicited the oft repeated "Are you going to write about this on your blog?" Yes. Yes I am because after the spanking I get playing her in every other game, I deserve to gloat just this once.

Look, Trivial Pursuit is my game just as Scrabble is Ms. K's game. Somehow she always manages to beat me with a sizable point lead while I'm struggling to keep up with the language gymnastics -- so much that my brain is sweating. As for Trivial Pursuit, I just have a talent for useless random knowledge gleaned form a variety of sources.

Today Ms. K emailed me, "Perhaps I will spend the rest of day reading random Wikipedia pages with the hopes that I will someday beat you at Trivial Pursuit."

I sense a rematch brewing tonight.

Speaking of great feats, I would like to update you all on The Reckoning. I started going to the gym three months ago, which entails getting up at 6 am and schlepping on the subway to another part of Brooklyn. After three months I was a little dismayed that I had only lost 10 pounds, but Ms. K reminded me that muscle is denser than fat, which is why the jeans I bought three weeks ago now have to be worn with a belt.

Suck it.

And another thing that can suck it? All those stairs at the Broadway-Lafayette BDFV station. From platform to street, there are 70 stairs in total and no elevator or escalator for help. Meeting that climb in the morning without the aid of coffee is like a special punishment handed out by a vengeful god. But today marked an accomplishment for me. Not only did I go running (shock!) on the treadmill at the gym today, but I quickly climbed everyone of those goddamned stairs without losing my breath.

It was my Rocky moment.

"Do you not love your blog anymore?"

Hi.

Remember me?

I used to blog with greater frequency. And then my mind sort of took a siesta and I used my non blogging hours to do all sorts of things like lay around and watch the television (eg, Simon Schama documentaries because I'm a nerd). I even drove down to Delaware with Ms. K and sat by the pool at my parents' beach house and developed a skin tone a little more opaque than my usual translucence. My gym visits became staggered and I decided that my new favorite drink was black cherry infused bourbon (Red Stag by Jim Beam) with fresh squeezed lemon juice over ice. Oh the delights! (Oh the bad habits, how they've returned.)

But now I feel a little more mentally present to recommit myself to blogging and the gym and all those other commitments that I shirked while sipping cocktails and playing 3 hour games of Monopoly with Ms. K, who always wins.

For now, I leave you with this.



Hammer time.

"Get a room!"

I'm not sure if its writer's block, but every time I try to write a blog entry my fingers go still and my mind goes blank. It's not like there aren't things to write about. Take for instance my picnic in Central Park with Ms. K. Add some sandwiches, a couple bottles of prosecco, a frisbee, and sunshine = some instant fun. While we were enjoying our time in the Sheep Meadow, we noticed a young couple lying on top of each other about 20 yards or so away from us. They were obviously making out, but in a stackable, keep your clothes on sort of way. They were at it quite some time, long enough for the group of girls near us to make beer fueled cat calls in their direction.

"Get a room!"

I should note for the uninitiated that the Sheep Meadow in Central Park is an extremely public place. On a nice day, such as the day we visited, it is full of people on blankets soaking up the sun, playing frisbee, or tossing a ball. So it's rather noticeable when two people are practically dry humping in full view of many many people.

Maybe it was the bottle of prosecco I had drunk, but I found this to be rather hilarious and I was consumed with the giggles as Ms. K and I lay on our blanket, watching the show from afar.

Then the young woman, straddling the man, took off her jacket and tied it around her waist.

"Wait. Is she going to . . . . ?"

Sure enough, if you paid attention, you would have noticed that the woman had surreptitiously pulled down her jeans. Why yes, you would be right in assuming that the couple was having sex. In the Sheep Meadow? IN THE SHEEP MEADOW?! If you're going to have public sex, why not by a tree or furtively in the bushes? That's why God invented the Ramble! And to top off the sleaziness, men with cell phone cameras swarmed around the couple, like sharks to blood. It's very possible that this all made it onto YouTube.

I've lived in New York almost five years and I have to say that this marks my most quintessential New York experience.