September 23, 2014

At the start of the 1996 season, I knew nothing about baseball. I was 9 years old.

My family comprised mostly Mets fans. I couldn’t fault my parents for this shortcoming, a symptom of theatrical folk who can’t help but root for the underdog. (The Mets also won the World Series—for the only time in my entire life, to date—just weeks after I was born. That kind of thing sticks with a parent.)

But I digress. Though basically ambivalent toward America’s alleged “favorite pastime,” I was also highly impressionable in the spring of ’96. So when I spotted the Yankees’ newly minted shortstop—a rookie whose name, Jeter, rung like a bell in my young ears—I took note. Not of his talent, but of a criminally dimpled smile and quiet confidence that, without logic or life experience, I knew was special.  

That year, he helped lead the team to the World Series. (I helped convert my parents to Yankees fans, and they’ve never looked back.) For the first time in my life, I felt the teeth-clenching, heart-palpitating excitement that accompanies your team’s quest for victory. That feeling was instantly addictive, and marked the beginning of a lifelong love affair.

Then they kept winning. They took the championship in 1998, 1999, and 2000, and I entered full-fledged adolescence on a high of champions. In 7th grade, I proudly donned my Yankees cap to “Hat Day” at school and a bully challenged me to name five current Yankee players. I named 12 before he stopped me.

I didn’t know they were the glory days. We never do.

A lot happened in the next nine years. I grew up, for one. I learned that the Yankees don’t win the World Series every year. I went to a college in the Midwest where people would visibly recoil when I proclaimed my fandom, insisting that my beloved team was somehow a scam because it was rich. I was too hurt fight back. I never wanted to fight about the Yankees, just to be loyal to them.

By the start of the 2009 season, I knew a lot about baseball. I’d seen the Yankees’ proverbial best and worst of times, all the while honored to consume every nugget of history they generously doled out. The Captain made it easy. With his unshakable resolve, professionalism, and pride in the franchise’s storied legacy, he remained a role model not just for his teammates, but also for his fans.

Then in early October, I met a man. Amid a flurry of messages vetting one another for a potential blind date, one major question loomed: “Who is your favorite Yankee of all time?”

There was only one answer. We’ve been in love ever since.

A few weeks later, the Yankees won the World Series.

Five subpar seasons ensued, but Jeter—and our mutual love of him—never wavered. We watched him break his ankle in the 2012 ALCS, a twist of fate that likely cost us the championship, and ultimately kept him off the field for most of the next season. We watched him bid farewell to his Core Four, and with each one an emblem of our childhood faded. We watched him stay laser-focused in his final season, under a microscope of media eager for him to choke up, screw up, or give up.

They clearly don’t know who they’re dealing with.

As Jeter plays out the final few games of his historic career, it’s easy to be sad. It’s easy to consider this the final chapter closed on my childhood. It’s easy to reminisce, to cry, and to lament that all good things come to an end.

I traded in my 18-year-old cap this year for a fresh one with a small #2 medallion modestly pinned on the side, which I wear with a renewed sense of pride. There’s a lot left to my Yankees story, and I’ve got to keep my head in the game and my eye on the ball. The Captain would want it that way.

April 1, 2014
Where Old + New Align: Joe Doucet for Odabashian

Coolest. Rug. Ever. My latest on fab:

From an outside perspective, Odabashian and Joe Doucet appear to have little in common. The former is a legendary American rug brand with nearly a century of production under its belt; the latter is a contemporary design powerhouse who dances among disciplines with ease. Their crossing of paths…

March 2, 2014
The Audition

Note: I discovered this buried on my hard drive, a nostalgic token from a freshman year writing course at Northwestern. I’m pretty amazed at how applicable these words feel after three additional years of school, six years of real-world experience, and a total career change.

Always be one step ahead. Be ready to do anything and everything—to be anyone and everyone—they ask of you, as if you would have done it anyway. Forget your insecurities or desperation; forget the feeling of sheer terror as you stand, seemingly unarmed, on the front lines in war against your own vulnerability. Leave the you who you hate at the door; leave the chill from the 20-minute frigid walk there; leave the pain from the muscle you tore by squeezing in just one more workout; leave the crushing fatigue of another night spent up and wondering if this job will be the one. Leave the world outside and give yourself to the empty room; this is your world now. It is your job to transform it. It is your job to transform yourself; it is your job to transform those people behind the table—the ones sighing and tapping their pencils—into your audience; it is your job to turn those notes on a staff on a black-and-white page into a story. This is how you impress the right guy; this is how you land the job; this is how you get experience; this is how you meet the people and make a name and get the call that makes your whole world explode. Ground yourself, in spite of the height of the heels that are integral to the claim of “fight-foot-five” on your resume; ground yourself, in spite of the vacant stares that threaten to snap you in half. Remember why you love it, when your legs start to tremble and your dress is all wrong; when your PMS is so bad that even your cat doesn’t want to be around you; when you wish you could just this once take a cab instead of the subway and pay off your debt and make mom and dad proud and make all of your dreams come true.

Show ten thousand versions of yourself, but never show an imitation.

Remember the words as if you’ve said them a thousand times; feel as if you are saying them for the first. Breathe in and breathe out and two minutes will be gone. Breathe in and breathe out and it’s over; it’s over, and you can eat something; it’s over, and the slate is clean; it’s over, and you start to remember why you love it; it’s over, until tomorrow. 

January 11, 2014
To The Central Park Runner

It’s been a few weeks. Dark mornings and unpredictable weather have relegated me to the treadmill recently, even on long runs. I’ve missed you.

This morning was temperate and misty—conditions I know you love—but a forecast of heavy rain and thunderstorms made me wonder whether you’d be there, or I’d be stood up on this damp 11-mile date. 

My excitement to see you eclipsed my reservations. I took special precautions preparing today, mentally checking off my list of the rainy run essentials you’d recommended on message boards and the pages of Runner’s World. I felt a bit like a poseur, but I also felt pretty cool.

I first saw you as I entered the Park at 90th and Central Park West. I was a mere half-mile in; you had just finished. Clad head-to-toe in black—with long pants, sleeves, and a hat—you calmed my fears of overheating in the thermal vest I wore to keep dry. You looked comfortable, unfazed. 

As I made my way down West Drive I saw you by the dozens—in front of me, beside me, behind me. You passed me and I passed you. I observed your effortless gait—trying to match my every clumsy step to your gracefully restrained technique. 

I saw you at mile 3, curving up the East Side of the Park, in a Triathlon T-shirt—and marveled at how easy 11 miles sounded in comparison.

I passed you on Harlem Hill, and silently shared in your pain. Yet I felt so much less this time—less than ever before. Then I saw you running toward me, relishing this 0.32-mile stretch of steady downhill. There was no eye contact, but I heard your empathy in each steady breath. 

Entering the Park at 90th to start your run, you nearly crossed in front of me at mile 6.5. But when you saw me slurping down that silly raspberry-flavored goo, you slowed to let me pass. You knew this was a long one.

I thought you’d leave me for a respite around the Reservoir, but instead we dove together down the West Side for a second time. It felt like flying.

Somewhere during mile 8, after cutting back east at 72nd, we climbed Cat Hill together. You cheerfully conversed with your buddy all the way. I eavesdropped, and it almost didn’t feel like a hill at all.

The wind and mist picked up around mile 9, and I worried you’d notice me slowing. But in solidarity, you stayed—by my side, behind me, in front of me. Wherever I was, you were there.

Crossing back to the West Side for the final time, I mentally prepared for a steady uphill before the finish. As I ascended, you breezed past me and I wondered if you were on mile 1 or 21. I channeled your energy and ease. The wind was suddenly fierce, and each refreshing gust threatened to throw us off course.

We parted ways at 90th, where I peeled off from the Park and up a few more blocks to reach the almighty 11. Just like that. I know you’ll be here next time.

Because, Central Park Runner, you always are. For that, I thank you.

Thank you for being you. Thank you for being me.


January 9, 2014
13 Things I Learned In 2013

1. It is possible to consume only juice for 3 days, be fully functional and feel really great. But it’s expensive and not exactly life-altering.

2. Even the best people need to mind their own damn business. That includes you. That includes me.

3. Nantucket is a magical place. And riding a bike for the first time in over 15 years is…just like riding a bike.


4. There is a little restaurant/inn called River’s End located on a bend of Highway 1 where the Russian River meets the Pacific Ocean. Nestled in the side of a cliff, it provides a sweeping aerial view of this magnificent intersection, flanked by dozens of seals sunbathing on damp stretches of sand. It may be the closest I’ve been to heaven. Order a local wine and the crab bisque.

5. Musical theater is alive and well in NYC and living at the Music Box Theatre.

6. Jazz is alive and well in NYC and living at 106th & Broadway and Columbus Circle.

7. Karma is stopping to help someone stranded with car trouble (after hundreds of others didn’t), then hours later coming perilously close to running out of gas—without cellphone service, miles from the next town—yet somehow making it, on faith and fumes.

8. Nostalgia is perhaps the most deeply persuasive emotion.

9. Doctors are quick to medicate things that can easily be healed on their own. This is their job. Always consider a second opinion, especially if it’s your own.

10. Always get the maximum insurance on a car rental. Consider it mandatory. You never know.

11. Stay focused and don’t listen to gossip. When the shit hits the fan, you may be better off than you expected.

12. Letting go is much less painful than holding on.

13. All good things must come to an end. Only then can the memories thrive.

January 5, 2014
Treadmills & Tribulations

Ed. Note: This isn’t exclusively a running blog, but my Manhattan Half-Marathon training is consuming much of my mental energy at the moment. Post-January 26th I vow to get back to all things New York-ey.

Perhaps the most maddening aspect of half-marathon training thus far has been my increasing dependence on—er, obsession with—those unpredictable elements. After moving yesterday’s 10-miler to today due to extreme cold (12 °F felt like 1°, and I’m rather fond of my lungs), I began checking the hourly forecast compulsively. I tossed and turned all night, deliberating on the best 1 hour and 40 minute window to avoid the predicted sleet and rain. But faced with a nasty morning and little guarantee for improvement, I made my decision: A treadmill run.

No sooner did I begin the half-block trek to the gym than my decision was validated. An inch-thick layer of slush-covered ice coated much of my block—and, I assume, Manhattan.

It was a good call. The run was hard but strong. I, of course, incorporated the big hills. But is the treadmill a lesser form of training? Am I a weaker runner for refusing to set out in what I deem unsafe conditions? Like all aspects of running, it comes down to philosophy.

I run to test my physical endurance, not my endurance of the elements.
I do not run on ice or snow to challenge my sense of balance.
I do not run in the arctic cold to test my lungs and flirt with cold-induced asthma.
I do not run in heavy rain to see how my sensitive Irish skin responds to frigid drops pelting my face, or how my tired, calloused feet handle that soggy squishing with every step.

Why, then, did I sign up for a winter half-marathon? The aforementioned aside, I love winter running. I find clear conditions from 25 °F - 45 °F to be totally invigorating. Central Park is stark and beautiful when the low January sun filters through the gnarled, bare tree branches. And believe it or not, most of my winter races have fallen under these glorious conditions.

I also have the time. With spring, summer, and even fall come weddings, vacations, long weekends, and countless other reasons why one can’t devote much of the weekend to a long run, plus prep and recovery. Bonus: I was able to use the excess holiday calorie consumption (#nomnomnom) to supplement my training, and I actually lost weight in December. It’s really satisfying to feel at optimum fitness when everyone else is bemoaning any non-party-related physical activity for the first time in a month.

So given the psychological agony I inflicted on myself while planning this run, I felt the need to refocus. Re-prioritize. When I clicked “submit” to my application for the Manhattan Half, I did so with a vow that I would do this on my terms, on my time, for as long as it felt right.

Take it away, Frank.

I planned each charted course, each careful step along the byway
And more, much more than this, I did it my way.

December 30, 2013
Missed Compassion

Date: December 18, 2013
Time: 6:30pm
Place: Uptown 2/3 Train

I was standing against the west side doors of this uptown train as you entered at 34th Street—or perhaps 42nd. I was too consumed with nonsense to notice. Scanning my news feed for the highlights of the day, all I saw out of the corner of my eye was an awkward, middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair, fumbling with his bag. Given your stature I knew that you should take a hold of the railing before the train jolted back into motion. You didn’t, and as if on cue, you stumbled toward me and stomped squarely on my left foot…still sore from this morning’s run.

I sighed an apathetic “Ow,” but didn’t look at you. I was tired, tuned out, and protected by the force field that I wear almost constantly when out alone in our city. It’s a veil of protection that’s often valid—but often not. It’s easier to not bother discerning between the two.

You said “Sorry” immediately, and again a moment later, “Sorry about that.” I didn’t look up and didn’t respond. Not a split second later, I began to feel guilty for my lack of responsiveness, which was almost as rude as a blatant “Back off.” But the moment had passed, and your back was to me. To then break my force field in order to smile and say “It’s ok” would have, I felt, made the situation unnecessarily intimate.

I suddenly became preoccupied with my own passive cruelty. I don’t know where you were going, or what you have been through. I immediately started searching for a wedding ring, not for the usual reasons someone might, but with the hope that you would arrive home to a gentler, wiser woman than I—one who with a smile and a kiss could erase any thought of that inconsiderate 20-something on the subway. “Young people can be selfish,” she’d say warmly. And she would be right.

But there was no wedding ring. As I continued to observe you, wearing a pair of khakis and a plum-colored sweater with a checkered collared shirt haphazardly tucked-in underneath, I became more and more concerned that, with mere passivity, I could have possibly hurt you. That I was perhaps the final straw on the day’s insurmountable stack of impolite gestures. That in saying nothing—and refusing eye contact—I actually had the capability to make you feel bad.

I hope for the opposite. I hope you have forgotten me, and that my behavior—my selfish impulse to shield myself from well-meaning strangers—was nothing more than a gnat you had to swat away on your way home.

Know this: When I treat you as invisible, I assume I’m invisible, too. Tonight, I stand corrected.

So please accept my apology. For you did nothing wrong and—in doing nothing—I did everything wrong. Perhaps if I had smiled and said “Merry Christmas,” your night wouldn’t have been any different. But mine surely would have.

November 10, 2013
Running This City

Last week I made the semi-impulsive decision to sign up for my first half-marathon.

[Semi-impulsive (adj.) ˈse-mē-im-ˈpəl-siv: Having been casually considered for some time, though only seriously considered in the not-entirely-sober moments prior to making a major decision.]

I’ve been running consistently for 8 years. Why, now, would I do something as crazy as run 13.1 miles? Something exactly one-half as crazy as running a marathon (which, incidentally, I have no desire to do)?

One week into my training, and on behalf of the thousands of runners who call NYC their course, I feel the need to respond to this rhetorical question:

1. Because I can. I don’t think I can, but I can.
2. I’m half crazy.
3. I get to train in Central Park.
4. I’m half crazy.

My best friend Alyssa (who is, incidentally, much saner than I) brought up some interesting points based on the knowledge she has gleaned from distance runner acquaintances:

1. What if your toenail falls off?
2. Lifelong back and joint problems.
3. Bloody nipples. (Ok, mostly for dudes. Two sports bras should have me covered. Literally.)
4. Toenails. Falling. Off.

The truth is, if I encounter any major malady (other than insanity) during my training regimen, I will stop. (I promise, Mom.) Because for me, the motivation is health. Physical, mental, and emotional. Running can hurt in the moment, but it always feels good after the fact. If that changes, it’s not worth it to me anymore. Plain and simple.

But what’s the biggest reward? Is it the increased endurance and overall fitness? The sense of pride?

I’m not fully prepared to answer that until I cross the finish line, but I will say this: New York runners are the luckiest runners in the world.

We have infinite course options, but many involve obstacles like red lights and narrow pathways clogged with tourists.

And then there’s Central Park. It’s the site of the Manhattan Half, and all of the longest races I’ve done unto this point. (10K’s. I know. Weak.)

Today marked my first “long run” of training, and I passed not one, not two, not three, but four live jazz concerts along the way. I hit my stride just past the Met, when the tourists thin out and there’s a nice, straight, flat stretch before you reach the 102nd Street Transverse (a.k.a. the 5-mile mark, if you run counter-clockwise from West 90th Street as I do).

The first 3.3 were hard only because I was unsure of what I had gotten myself into. But when I hit my stride—on this glorious 48-degree day tailor-made for runners—I felt that sense of ease that comes from distance running that I haven’t felt in awhile. I didn’t have to do anything. Except. Keep. Going.

I finished at 101st and Central Park West, and a street vendor was waiting for me, Poland Spring in hand. (Okay, it took awhile to get his attention and he seemed agitated to have to break a sweaty $20, but still.)

Enough waxing poetic on what others deem a selfish sport. But as I embark on this, the greatest physical challenge of my life, it felt worth noting. I’ll keep it up until it doesn’t feel right anymore. Hopefully I’ll cross a finish line before that.

November 3, 2013
In Defense Of One World Trade

Making the rounds last week was an article purportedly written by Bansky for The New York Times and rejected before it went to print. This piece capped off the enigmatic street artist’s month-long residency in a city that, not surprisingly, welcomed him with open arms. Bansky’s work is one of few things that can still surprise us.


I’ve been a Bansky fan since seeing the semi-biographical Exit Through the Gift Shop in 2010. (I have since learned it is likely a mockumentary. Fiction or not, it gets the point across.) His elaborate, elusive works are nothing if not powerful—capable of leaving an impression long after being scrubbed from their forbidden canvases.


So to me, the artist’s unpopular opinion on One World Trade felt sort of like the flashing of a middle finger on his way out the door. But—like his other incendiary acts—it was also kind of exciting. Oh, snap, Bansky. Ya done did it again.

But the shiny glow of his opposition quickly faded, exposing an uncomfortable uncertainty. Was he right? Had we spent 10+ years recovering from the greatest attack on New York City of all time only to erect a monument to mediocrity? Had its meaning been muddied through days, weeks, and years of proposals, planning, and red tape?

Let’s consider the purpose of the tower. It is not a memorial. We have one of those, and it’s exquisite, humbling, and understated.

The tower—the proposals for which began circulating as early as 2002—is the final, and most literal, piece in the recovery process. It exists to exist; to fill a physical hole that, had it remained, would have glaringly signaled defeat.

imagevia New York Times

It is inevitably symbolic, but not outwardly so. In a quiet nod to freedom, the tower’s spire pierces the sky at precisely 1776 feet. But it was stripped of its original name, The Freedom Tower, in favor of one that soberly defers to the inescapable significance of its own address: One World Trade.

Structurally speaking, it’s a fortress. I’ve seen it from many angles, and what it may lack in architectural ingenuity, it makes up for in sheer girth. When I first visited the 9/11 Memorial in 2011, I got very close the base. The walls have to be at least 5 feet thick. I have never seen anything like it.

But buildings don’t rebuild us; it’s the other way around. If you want to see New York’s “spirit and audacity”—stronger now than ever before—stop staring skyward and look around.

Look to the artists. They speak to us with saxophones on subway platforms, with paint sprayed on decaying walls and rusted scaffolds, with poetry scrawled on the sidewalk. They dig into our consciousness and, like a gnarled root busting through the concrete, manage to subtly yet permanently change our course.

One World Trade is not the place to showcase that talent. The site of such devastation needn’t be made into a work of art. It just needs to stand.

Stand in its shadow for a moment and just be still. If you’re lucky, you’ll round the corner and, on a wall you never noticed before, you’ll find something like this:


It will change your outlook, perhaps for a day—perhaps forever. And for that, Bansky, we thank you.

July 6, 2013
I’d never say this to your face.

Tim Kreider has quickly become one of my favorite writers, primarily for his Op-Ed work in The Times. He has a gift for admitting to the human condition in a way that is both valiant and matter-of-fact; both comforting and deeply unnerving.

He first caught my attention with this piece on embracing the inevitable ignorance of being a living, thinking human being.

But this one hits even closer to home: “I Know What You Think Of Me”—a hard-hitting, yet characteristically concise examination of something we all do: talk about others. Including (and especially) those we love the most.

I’ve found myself more guilty of this lately than ever. And observing this behavior through Kreider’s refreshingly un-fogged lens, I realize that I am not alone—just a cog in the wheel of human interaction. Deciphering, analyzing, or just plain criticizing the innate qualities of the people we know brings us closer to the people we are talking to in that moment. It’s at once a fundamental act of bonding and a passive form of betrayal.

And the vast majority of the time, we consider it harmless. As if our genuine affection for the person up for discussion permits our analysis. For the sake of this conversation, they are not the one we would jump to our feet to embrace should they walk through the door—they are simply a subject, a heartless entity for our dissection.

What we’re less inclined to acknowledge—but are subconsciously aware of—is that they are doing the same thing to us. That’s the unspoken excuse—a childish justification that nonetheless fodders this behavior.

True to form, Kreider’s final phrase is still ringing in my ears: “…If we want the rewards of being loved we have to submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known.”

I might add that the most mortifying part of knowing what others think is the affirmation of what we already think about ourselves….those insurmountable truths that we live with everyday, hoping nobody else will notice.

I know what you think of me, because I think it too. The only way to change your perception would be to change my own, which would require a change of who I fundamentally am. Which is impossible.

So what do we do? Embrace the ignorance. As much as we can.

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