"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!