Category: Writing

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Blog Occurrences Running Sports Writing

Zen and the Insanity of Running

Yesterday I ran further than I can recall in recent memory. The last time I ran more than 20 miles was six years ago to the day when I finished the Motorola Marathon in Austin, Texas.

So I laced up my shoes and headed toward Central Park. I initially intended to run to a nearby borough – The Bronx or Queens, perhaps, but as I traversed the trees of the North Woods, I decided to detour south, cutting through to Columbus Circle.

” The Brooklyn Bridge,” I thought. “I’ll run across the Brooklyn Bridge.”

The cereal and granola bars in my stomach were getting tossed around with each step and I needed something to level the balance of food. A hot dog fit the bill perfectly. I dug two dollars out of my kangaroo pouch in my running tights in exchange for some red and yellow tube steak.

With zip in my step I started down Broadway again following the green path between traffic and the sidewalk. It was here that I noticed a bicyclist who was keeping pace with me quite well. We matched each other through Times Square but I lost him shortly after Herald Square. Oh well, I thought brushing him off.

I continued past the Flat Iron building, through Chinatown and finally reached a bridge. But to my dismay it was The Manhattan Bridge.

“Maybe I’ll just cross this one instead,” I thought. “No…I’m not quitting now.”

Finally I approached the Brooklyn Bridge as I weaved between photographers and tourists the massive cables ran overhead. The wooden planks that carry you across the East River provide a nice change from the hard concrete and asphalt of the city.

I am not familiar with most of Brooklyn so I knew that I would have to zen it. It’s a combination of a good sense of direction and wandering about aimlessly. I use this quite often.

I remember running down Flushing Avenue until I arrived at Metropolitan Avenue when I realized I was lost. A sign pointing east toward Long Island was a pretty good indication. I had intended to zen toward the northwest part of the island, when in fact I was running northeast. The good news about getting lost is that your ability to zen only improves.

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Blog Occurrences Photography Writing

Dr. Frankenstein’s Metal Monster

I was walking to dinner this evening when I noticed something sitting at the foot of a lamppost. It was the unmistakable suitcase that holds typewriters. Given my affinity for typewriters, I immediately investigated the scene of the crime.

DCPI Report:
On Saturday, January 23, 2010 at approximately 1756 hours police responded to the corner of West 112th Street and Broadway Avenue within the confines of the 26 Precinct in regards to an unconscious typewriter. Upon arrival police discovered an electric typewriter with lacerations to the body of the keyboard. The victim, a T/B/40’s, was unconscious inside of a trashcan at the location. EMS responded and pronounced the typewriter DOA at 1808 hours. The Medical Examiner will determine the cause of death, the investigation is ongoing at this time.


Family notification is pending for the deceased.

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Categories
Blog Occurrences Photography Writing

A Change of Heart and Home

Driftwood, Texas is no New York City. But for better or worse, it was my home for 18 years until I moved to Boston for my undergraduate studies. I have lived the majority of my life in the house that my father built. This year my return home during Christmas and New Years was not what I anticipated. I expected to have a relaxing and enjoyable time, but I was left bored more than anything else.

While it was nice seeing my family a few friends from high school, I spent the majority of my time trying to keep myself occupied on our 10-acre plot of land, while holding onto what little sanity remained after the majority of it was ripped from my soul by the Journalism School.

While it feels good to be back in New York City, I cannot shake the feeling that for the first time in my life Texas no longer feels like home. It’s sad, but I guess its just a sign that I’m changing as a human being. Even as I change, I still maintain some of the characteristics of my youth. As my father always says, “You can take the boy out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the boy.”

Mother Nature has a way of cleansing herself through disaster. In the case of my family, Onion Creek – named for the wild green onions that grow its’ banks – will flood, destroying whatever gets in its path. I’ve witnessed flood waters carry away livestock, cars and homes, throwing them around like they were toys. Now a flood of emotions overtake me in the new decade as I finish my latest journey and start a new one. Where I’ll finally wash up is still to be determined.

Debris from years of flooding.
Debris depositing after years of flooding.
Onion Creek marks the southern boundary of our property line.

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Blog Occurrences Skateboarding Sports Writing

The Hazards of Skateboarding

So I took my skateboard out for a spin after taking a three week hiatus and no more than 5 minutes after I took off, I hit a patch of gravel that twisted my board cock-eyed. The laws of motion sent me flying off my board and hitting the asphalt road hard. My primary concern, however, was not my own safety, but the safety of my board. The last thing I want is for my board to get snapped by some absent-minded motorist.

I peeled myself off the pavement and scrambled to catch my board which was rolling backwards into oncoming traffic. After saving my board I investigated my own injuries. I shredded the palm of my right glove and have a nasty strawberry underneath it on my hand. Then I pulled up the left sleeve of my hoodie to reveal that some of the skin just below my elbow had been removed.

With adrenaline pumping through my body, I decided to persevere to Central Park and bomb the hill at 108th Street. I climbed to the top of the hill and tucked in as I carved the massive hill, my hair blowing in the wind.

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Blog Occurrences Writing

Two Roomies and a Typewriter

A couple of nights ago, my roommate Rick and I were drinking beer when we decided to whip out my typewriter, a 1964 Smith Corona Classic 12. Light Blue. Full manual. Rick and I are both writers – him the creative nonfiction type and me the reporter – so we decided to collaborate on an impromptu piece of creative journalism.

I started typing to show him how to use the metal brute. After a couple of quick lines, I plopped the typewriter in his lap.

it;s so he avy this typewriter
doyou want to put it on the floor.
nnah. it feels good.

Clacking keys on a manual typewriter is unlike any other form of writing. You realize the struggles that plagued writers of the past. Typing isn’t smooth and fluid like on a keyboard, it’s a pecking frenzy that leaves your hands twisted as they try and keep up with your mind.

Occasionally you’ll miss a space or hit half a letter in the quest to complete a sentence. But let the fingers warm up and watch the words pop as steel slaps ink on a page.

There is no delete key, only a backspace which can be used to turn r’s to n’s and p’s to g’s. When you screw up bad enough, you have to rip out the page and start anew. No wonder writers of the past were so damn good. One draft is never enough. The rewriting process is decided by the nature of the machine.

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Blog Occurrences Writing

Justice – Served Cold with a Pickle and a Side of Chips

Two month ago, myself and three friends from the Columbia University chapter of the hash house harriers were issued a court summons before a run through the Cloisters. Officers Nunez and Silvano of the 34th precinct informed us that the brown-bag shields we were using to cover our beers were no match for their detection skills. They issued me, my roommate Rick, and friends Pat and Sean summons for having an open container of alcohol. We did the crime, now it was time to pay up for our actions. Our day in court had arrived.

There was a steady rain as the four of us arrived at Criminal Court a little after 9 a.m. We shuffled to the back of the line, the first of six lines that day, which had already formed halfway down the block. Our minds began to wonder what lied on the inside of the stone temple of justice.

“I imagine it’s like a deli,” Pat said. “You get a number and then justice is served like a ½ pound of Boar’s Head, sliced thin for sandwiches.”

After getting inside the front door and through security, we were directed to wait in yet another line on the second floor. At the end of this line was a clerk who would take our summons and assign us to one of three courtrooms. Slowly we worked our way through the bureaucratic maze that is the New York City penal system.

During our wait we stood behind Henry, a career criminal, who wouldn’t say what he was summoned for. He beguiled us with stories of making fake IDs when living in Miami and driving a carload of pot to Houston. Standing about 5’7” and wearing faded jeans and a paint-stained hoodie, Henry assured us that we would pay no more than a $100 ticket.

With a worried look on his face, Rick turned to me. “I don’t like being in trouble,” he said. “It gets to my conscience.”

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