Springtime for Greg in New York (do I have to explain that joke?)

It’s taken me awhile to come up with a good blog post. I want to write a post about one of the main pieces of this blog- my possible and gradual falling out of love with New York.

This post isn’t going to be about that. This one is going to be much shorter. I wanted to talk about a couple of random things instead.

Let’s start with how beautiful the weather here in the city was tonight, but not for the day. There’s a reason I live in a fairly cold weather climate. According to the local news, it was 92 degrees Fahrenheit (33 Celsius; you’re welcome Mel!) during the day, and 80 degrees at 11 pm. The city, during the summer, averages 85 degrees, and summer doesn’t go into full swing here until July and stays until the end of August. Are you kidding me???? It was gross (a word I seldom use) today. As my friend Daniel said today, “I prefer cold to hot. You can always put on layers. You can’t peel your skin off.” Oh Daniel, how pithy.


Haha! Get it?

But nighttime, and especially downtown, where the streets tend to get closer to the rivers and the ocean, was beautiful! We sat in Washington Square Park, and watched the beautiful NYU ladies and the “so-hip-it-makes-me-feel-like-a-jock” gay guys. There was a little kid playing an old, cruddy piano. He was good, but it was very by rote; his pieces, such as Chopin’s Nocturne Opus 27 No. 2 (yes, I know of that by memory), were pretty, but lacked any emotion. The breeze breathed into us, and all of my senses had been awoken. Ahhh, now this is spring in New York, the second best season here (there’s a reason someone named a film “Autumn in New York”).



Springtime means something more than just beautiful weather. It means baseball. [Sports are a guilty pleasure of mine, particularly soccer, baseball and hockey]. Pay no attention to the prognostications and economics of sport; American football holds no power over the country like baseball does. I take that back- this region, from about Philadelphia all the way up to Maine, along the sea coast and in about one hundred miles, is baseball country. When I feel that early spring breeze and the girls start to wear flowing dresses without stockings underneath, I remember spring baseball leagues when I was very young. I couldn’t get into it; when I was young, I didn’t like any sports, preferring to read and draw (I still love these things far more than any sport).


You wouldn't believe how hard it was to find any pictures of springtime dresses and New York that didn't involve Paris Hilton.

Somehow, though, I still remember the smell of fresh leather from the mitt on my left hand and the feel of cold aluminum in my hands as I strained to make some contact of the bat to the ball, to make my grandfather proud. And then, when I failed as I often did, I was reminded by my peers that I should just go back to my books. I embraced sports when I reached middle school, thanks almost entirely to feeling like an outcast among my fellow boys, some more manly than others. I champed my teeth and dove into the games, reading about their histories voraciously. I started to work on shooting a basketball or on pitching a baseball. And here I am now, rooting on my hometown Yankees with one eye and, with the other, watching the ladies. Oh, spring, how I missed you.



To finish up- I wanted to say that I doubled my readership! Mel Cotton, from all the way out in the inner west (which I’m still a little confused over) of Sydney, has joined in and I’m glad to have her on this journey. Bear with me, dear reader; I’m just starting to figure this all out. Oh, and thank you to Valerie, who lives in Oregon, I believe, for a wonderful comment on the first post. I always enjoy being called a “genius.”

I’m going to tag Meryl Streep in this, just for you Valerie.

Hobos, hohos and ding-dongs (and elephants)

I realized two things after the last real post. One is that I didn’t link to Ben's page. The second thing is that my story was supposed to serve as an introduction to me, and I think it was more about Ben!

Here’s the thing: I think the majority of people who would read this are well aware of Ben. They’re well aware of me. However, I’m treating this blog as if it’s speaking to an amorphous being. Let’s call this being Mr. Internet. Hullo, Mr. Internet.

One quick thing to say: on the 6 train on the way out last night, a young man of 20 came into my car. He said he was from Washington, and he was trying to get to Florida for work. He looked grungy, and, by grungy, I mean dirty, not Nirvana-esque. He had a yellow, short, squat pit bull with basically a canine backpack around his (the dog’s) waist. He looked healthy and well-fed. His coat was actually shiny and petting him didn’t make my hand feel greasy. Essentially, this young man took care of his wonderful, loving, well-trained dog. My heart broke, and, as he walked by, I saw other people search for change. I pulled out my wallet and gave him a dollar. I’ve done this before, especially for very good buskers, since I feel like they gave me something (aural pleasure). When he walked away, I went back to my copy of Rumi, but it felt useless. I just wanted to sit and think. I wanted to be alone with my thoughts and memories. It was the first time I ever gave money to a homeless person and didn’t feel any sort of pity in doing it. That is to say, every homeless person I gave money to previous to him was out of pity for that person. In his and the dog’s case, I didn’t feel bad for them necessarily. I just wanted to share what I had with someone who seemed like he needed it. Do I know if he spent it on booze? No. Do I know if he goes home to a really nice studio on Montague Street? No. All I know is that it felt right to help these two, the consummate boy and his pup going on an adventure. As he walked away, I stared at myself in the subway window, which, especially when in tunnels, doubles as a mirror. I looked back at a well-fed face with my trimmed hair and beard, and wanted to cry.

That was depressing! Let's be happy and laugh at my expense; with that, I'm going to steal a post from Ben. It's a good one- Five key things I didn't experience until after the age of 23, or: The most revealing post you will EVER read on this blog

1. Very public displays of affection (not to be confused with public displays of too much affection)


2. Finally getting British humor (and finding it funny)


3. The joys of sexting
(Uhh...how do I show this without revealing my sex life?)

4. Growing a moustache!


















5. Being Zen, if only for a moment

(Seriously, can this guy be our mascot?)