I stayed up late and watched that game last night. I woke up early and searched the street outside my apartment for my lost wallet. No luck on either end of the candle.

First day of work after vacation sucks, but not as bad apparently as the first day of daycare after vacation. My younger son was a wreck and I was a triple grump when I slouched into my subway seat.

After a few stops a tall, young Black man boarded the train on crutches. He had a large cast on his left foot and a weathered Boston Red Sox smashed down over his head.

I was listening to music but I made eye contact with him when he settled up against the opposite door. I pointed at him and then I pointed at my seat. He nodded and I got up and moved to the side for him to sit. He nodded again in thanks and we exchanged small but genuine smiles.

I reached to my head to adjust my Yankee hat. When my hand touched my forehead, I remembered that I hadn’t worn it today. I wish I had.

I saw a girl on the subway this morning looking at her IPAD. She looked so content. The light from the screen reflected on her face. It reminded me of an illustration of a kid looking at a secret treasure that glowed. I wondered what she was reading and almost envied her happiness but all I could think about what that she was a perfect mark to get robbed.

I was at Citifield last night. The place was quiet as the top of ninth began, the Mets leading by a run. I was with a friend who was at Opening Day of Shea Stadium in 1964. “It’s quiet because everyone is waiting for something bad to happen,” he said.

Expecting something bad to happen. Which is exactly what happened. An error with the bases loaded turned a 3-2 lead into a 4-3 deficit.

I thought about Mariano Rivera as my friend and I walked through the parking lot after the game. We won’t have him much longer. Maybe another season or two. But the peaceful, easy feeling he gives us is temporary. It might dry up before retires. If only there was a way to bottle it.

When I think back on being a little kid, I think of West End Avenue and 103rd street and I see sneakers hanging from a telephone wire.

Woody and Mia, before the fall:

“I could go on about our differences forever: She doesn’t like the city and I adore it. She loves the country and I don’t like it. She doesn’t like sports at all and I love sports. She loves to eat in, early — 5:30, 6 — and I love to eat out, late. She likes simple, unpretentious restaurants; I like fancy places. She can’t sleep with an air-conditioner on; I can only sleep with an air-conditioner on. She loves pets and animals; I hate pets and animals. She likes to spend tons of time with kids; I like to spend my time with work and only a limited time with kids. She would love to take a boat down the Amazon or go up to Mount Kilimanjaro; I never want to go near those places. She has an optimistic, yea-saying feeling toward life itself, and I have a totally pessimistic, negative feeling. She likes the West Side of New York; I like the East Side of New York. She has raised nine children now with no trauma and has never owned a thermometer. I take my temperature every two hours in the course of the day.”

[Picture via Kateoplis]

Caught this last night. Yoga in Bryant Park. Hey, now.

A woman squeezed into the seat next to me this morning on downtown A train. It’s a tight space and tough to maintain personal borders, but we were both trying our best.

About a hundred blocks after she sat down, I finally glanced in her direction. She was reading the same book as me. Down to the same chapter. I smiled and thought to say something, but I had a Kindle and she was hauling the paperback, so I don’t think she could make the same connection.

An unanticipated loss for the urban eReaders out there.

Last night I saw a girl with red hair on the subway. She must have been seven or eight-years-old. She was sitting between two women in their late forties. The women were in animated discussion and the girl, who was wearing pink sneakers and had long feet, looked up at them. I couldn’t tell if one of the women was her mother or if they were aunts or what. They were speaking in Russian. Then I noticed a man was with them too, sitting next to one of the women. Four Russians. They dressed like they were not from around here.

I watched the girl. Sometimes she was included in the conversation. Mostly, she listened. It reminded me of being a kid, always hanging around adults, comfortable in their company. At one point, they all laughed. I don’t know why. Even the man. It was a brief moment but they all looked so content. I wondered if the girl would remember this train ride when she grew up.

I took a mental picture of them all smiling and thought of what happened in Norway last weekend. I know this is a mad, vicious world. I understand darkness but am grateful for the light.

[Photo Credit: Film is God]

The other day, I hopped on a 1 Train for one stop. I wanted to slide next to the door to make a quick exit because I was running late, but a guy was blocking my path. He was more than a head taller than me and twice as wide. He had a gut, but he wasn’t fat so much as extra-large. I thought of Andre the Giant. If aliens find our skeletons next to each other in a million years, they’ll probably classify us as different species.

I turned towards the other door and standing right behind me was a shaggy college kid with dark facial hair leaning on a fencing sword. He was standing stone straight, both hands folded over the hilt and the point of his epee wedged between his toes in his sandal.

I noticed a lot of eyes drifting between the sword, the kid and the giant. Were we all thinking the same thing?

I got off at my stop, but I kind of wanted to linger and see if a man in black was going to board…

Yeah, it’s roastin’, man. Too hot to type.

But not too hot to dream.

[Photo Credit: From Up North and Jeffreywithtwof’s]

I don’t mind if I rub shoulders with a woman on the subway. Sitting down, a woman next to me, the feel of their skin pushed against my shoulder, it’s okay, you know? But this week, New Yorkers are cranky from the heat. The less touching the better.

I felt bad for this dude. He got on the train this morning drenched with sweat. What a way to start the day.

I couldn’t get started this morning and it is already hot and muggy so the walk to the subway didn’t speed me up any.

When I got to work I said to one of the security guards, “Jesus, hot enough for you?”

“Never mind that, I’m already dealing with bullshit.”

I asked her what was wrong.

“This skinny bitch tries to come through here and I tell her she’s got to get put her bag through x-ray before I can let her in. Dude she’s with says, ‘She’s from the L.A. office, it’s okay.’ No, I don’t care where you from, over here you go through x-ray.”

I laughed and said, “Well, it’s over with so don’t dwell on it.”

“Oh, I’m done. Got to leave room for the more bullshit. My day’s just started.”

[Photo Credit: Penny Anderson]

Spotted on his way to the grocery store.

I love New York.

I’m afraid of heights but have always wanted to take a ride in one of these. Took this picture yesterday up in the Bronx.

Here’s another gallery of vintage New York photography.

This one features the work of Gita Lenz.

Stunning.

My man Brad pointed out this wonderful photo gallery of old New York.

Don’t miss it.

It’s boolchit hot, man. Dog Day hot. Do the Right Thing hot. Africa hot. You name it. The city is roasting, man. A regular schvitz-a-thon.

This is why air-conditioning was invented.  Stay inside if you can. Boy, what a day to play hooky and go to the movies. If you’ve got to be out, find a way to cool-out and drink a ton of water.

[Photo Credit: Nivek]

Living at the end of the line alters your relationship with the subway. You rely on it’s presence and emptiness in ways that would not be appropriate in the middle of the city. There is also a level of accumulated filth at the end of the line that probably does not apply there either.

On weekday mornings, after the train empties out, somebody takes to the train with a mop and bucket and slathers chlorine on the floors. The odor is stiff and intense and often, but not always, worse than the filth. At rush hour, the trains are moving in and out too quickly for all of the cars to receive this treatment. So you can weave through the waiting train searching for a car that doesn’t overwhelm you one way or the other.

I am a New Yorker and as such I prefer to walk wherever I’m going. You know, if it’s possible. I had a dinner last night on 48th St and 2nd Ave. I had to run an errand at Columbus Circle first. I hoofed it. No other method of transportation occurred to me, though I’m sure there were smart ways to use crosstown buses to make it a little easier and a little cooler. I enjoy walking.

I understand that Los Angeles and the surrounding beaches and sprawl is not built for walking. Still, when I went to the Dodger game on June 26th, my older brother Chris and I figured we’d put that notion to the test. We drove to the game very early, parked the car and walked out of the stadium towards Phillippe the Original.

It seemed very straightforward, the only tricky part was crossing the 110. The walking map / GPS on my phone had it pegged as a 25 minute walk. The phone is lucky it was not smashed on the sidewalk.

Maybe if you were one of the Elves from Lord of The Rings, it would have been a 25 minute walk. But my family moves at Dwarf or Hobbit-speed, especially in the heat.

Did I forget to mention my wife was pushing a double stroller? Disaster. You can imagine that an area not expecting pedestrians would skimp on sidewalks. There’s maybe 50 feet of sidewalk around Dodger Stadium that can accomodate the girth of the doublewide stroller. The road ahead was so treacherous that we had to send a scout 100 yards in advance in order to map where we could walk.

The sandwich at Phillippes is good, and probably deserves a Tasters Cherce, but the lines go on and on and noboby eles has planned to walk back – ever. So as we ate, the spectre of the return journey hung  above us.

But as with any disaster, it’s all about the people you’re with and how they react. We couldn’t stop laughing at ourselves, for thinking like New Yorkers and getting ourselves in this mess. My wife put a gob of their mustard on her sandwich before realizing how hot it was. We cracked up again. We missed the first pitch, and the first inning, but we caught the other eight and didn’t leave early.

Good thing, because the Dodgers won in a walkoff. We even hung around so the kids could run the bases. As we were leaving, my older son said, “When I grow up, I’m going to play baseball like those guys.” I think we were the last non-employees to leave Dodger Stadium. Great day and a walk I’ll probably never forget.

Map Courtesy of Bob Timmermann @ The Baseball Toaster

Man, it’s hot today. The kind of day you want to escape from New York and find a place to swim. Or just hit an air conditioned movie theater and hang out all day.

It was already steamy early this morning on the way to work.  When I got off the subway I held the door open for a family running to get on. They were tourists. The husband was the last one on and he thanked me. I think he was Spanish which made me think of my uncle in Belgium who has been in Spain on his vacation for the past few weeks.

Dude sent me this picture.

Now, that’s what I’m talkin’ bout.