Almost time for some Vaca

It’s been months now. Months of clockwise and counter clockwise riding around the three boroughs of my home in Brooklyn, Queens and of course, the grand island of retarded real estate, Manhattan. All of them connected by a selection of arched and tethered bridges. Some of them are steep and some are full of gawking tourists that have no sense of direction. I don’t ride over the Brooklyn Bridge anymore and it’s not just because it reminds me of my first nightmare of a living situation. It’s just that I don’t really go that way anymore. I went over the other week for a pick-up. The route followed my old route home so I felt smooth and in control like a well tuned barista creating perfect crème on top of an espresso. I’m meeting people and showing up to some of the events. The community is much smaller and tighter than you may think in a city like this that from the outside seems so huge and chaotic. It’s that and it’s also a place people end up finding a home and routine that defines their lives. It’s like no other place I’ve ever been. Once you’re inside the walls, behind the toll booths and under the tunnels, you kind of get the feeling there is no other place on earth and everything one needs is here. It’s a tough place but has its flow. I’ve not been out outside the borders for months now. I’ve had one sick day and maybe a couple holiday weekdays off. I’ve moved once and ordered pizza a couple times. I’m not from around here and by that I mean those of you who say, “Yeah, welcome to the real world". The 9—5, 7 day a week grind that defines most lives. I’ve lived a charmed life I suppose, a life that’s been full of support and opportunity. Travel and chance, food and wine, massaged and catered to is what my life has been all about. What banter! I’m just flexing my ability to be cynical and write stuff about stuff. I bought some crazy Brooklyn Bagels yesterday morning and Mimi and I had more this morning. I can’t get over how much better these giant, hand-rolled and steam boiled bagels are than any other bagel I’ve ever sunk my fangs into. I mean, I admit I was combative and took offense to my old roommates attack on Mr. J’s Bagels in Harrisonburg. “These things are puny little emaciated bagel-shaped pieces of inferior crap!” he would say. Well, yes, I now stand thoroughly corrected.