Battle Of The Bridges - Manhattan Versus Brooklyn

Versus

Dumbo, my new neighborhood in Brooklyn, is nestled comfortably between two iconic New York City bridges. We have the Brooklyn Bridge to the south, and the Manhattan Bridge to the north. Dumbo lies essentially in between - offering its residents a very difficult choice.

I've yet to hear any bickering in the streets over which bridge is the best - but now that I live here, I'm going to try to change that.

Don't be surprised, if the next time you're in Dumbo you hear the following:

"Hey kid! Quit looking at that stupid, big, blue hulking monstrosity (Manhattan Bridge), and turn your attention towards a REAL bridge - the Brooklyn Bridge!! Go get a Kleenex, you snot-nosed punk!!"

Or,

"Listen lady, you better put that camera away and keep walking. What you're aiming at is old as dirt, and built by slave labor (Brooklyn Bridge). If you're gonna take a picture of a bridge, then turn your big ol' self around and snap a shot of that magnificent steel structure over there (Manhattan Bridge)."

I personally believe that I'm very lucky to live so close to not one, but two suspension bridges. They're both very cool-looking. And they both offer a reliable route to and from Manhattan

Because, we as Americans can't accept the possibility that two things could be equally good, how does one decide which bridge is best?

Here are some important criteria that I've identified.

• Oldness
• Beautifulness
• Accessibility and congestion
  
• Appearances in film and television
• Number of Workers who died during construction
• Number of chief architects who died during the construction, and number of chief architects' sons who went mad and became invalids during the construction.

We could probably debate numerous other points regarding these bridges, but for now, let's leave it at these.

Oldness - Brooklyn Bridge wins by 26 years. It first opened in 1883, at which point it was the longest suspension bridge in the world. The Manhattan Bridge opened in 1909 - a relative teenager compared with the elderly Brooklyn Bridge. First point goes to the Brooklyn Bridge.

Beautifulness - I think there may be some debate on this point. But really, there shouldn't be. The Brooklyn Bridge is a timeless classic. The massiveness of its gothic stone towers give it an indestructible aura. If you don't think that it's much more aesthetically attractive than the Manhattan Bridge, then you are an asshole. Brooklyn Bridge is up 30-Love over the Manhattan Bridge.

Beauty in the form of a stone support tower. The Sophia Loren of bridge towers.

The Rosie O'Donnell of bridge towers.

Accessibility and Congestion - It obviously depends upon construction delays and time of day, but I'd say that in general, the Manhattan Bridge is less congested. The Manhattan Bridge has 7 total lanes open to traffic, while the Brooklyn Bridge has only 6. Additionally, the Manhattan Bridge can handle bus and truck traffic, which the Brooklyn Bridge cannot. This may be bad for congestion, but it's good if you're moving a big truck full of your old crap from an apartment in Manhattan to a new place in Brooklyn. Brooklyn Bridge 2, Manhattan Bridge 1.

Manhattan Bridge as seen from Dumbo. You can almost smell the bus exhaust from here.

Appearances in Film and Television - Both bridges have been filmed extensively. But I actually think the Manhattan Bridge has appeared more often. It's been featured in "King Kong", "Independence Day", "Live and Let Die", some stupid Steve Martin film, and "Armageddon" - among others. But the Brooklyn Bridge is the subject of Ken Burns documentary (cleverly called "Brooklyn Bridge") and is much more recognizable than the Manhattan Bridge. Let's call this one a wash. Still 2 to 1, Brooklyn Bridge is winning.

Number of Workers Who Died During Construction - No need for suspense. The Brooklyn Bridge wins this category by a landslide - similar to the panicked stampede that killed 12 more people soon after the bridge opened. 27 workers died during the construction, including the original designer, John Roebling - who died of tetanus after his foot was crushed in a ferry accident, pretty much before construction even began. As far as I can tell, nobody died during the Manhattan Bridge's construction. That's so lame. Come on Manhattan Bridge!! Can't you at least TRY to win this competition. Brooklyn Bridge is running away with the prize, 3 to 1.

Number of Chief Architects Who Died During the Construction, and Number of Chief Architects' Sons Who Went Mad and Became Invalids During the Construction - Brooklyn Bridge wins again. As mentioned above, the designer died early on. His son, Washington Roebling continued where his father left off, but soon descended into madness due to what must have been an awfully wicked case of the bends (decompression sickness). Brooklyn Bridge wins another one.

Ok, maybe this last one was a little unfair. I've been rooting for the Brooklyn Bridge all along. In my mind, it's not even close, and I've manipulated the score to reflect this.

Let me know what you think.

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A Frightening Realization

I wake up pretty much every day. You probably do too. There’s nothing surprising about that.

But this morning was different.

Whether from the remnants of last night’s dream, or simply sparked by an email I received from one of my college roommates last week, I woke up screaming. Don’t worry – I was only screaming on the inside. No need for a psychiatric intervention. Yet.

The reason for my shock was this sudden realization: I’ve been out of college for 10 years!

!!

!!!

!!!!

My 10-year college reunion is coming up this June. I can’t believe it. I’ve been not-so-subconsciously ignoring the emails and messages regarding this event.

I do believe that if I continue to ignore my 10th reunion, then it won’t happen, and I’ll live forever. No 10th reunion, and my body will believe that I’m still living somewhere in the misty region of memories between the 5th and 10th reunions. If my theory’s correct, then I should find myself stuck in some sort of space-time feedback loop.

Being stuck in a time loop might suck. But hopefully, it means I’ll be able to make some very lucrative sports bets.

In any case, I think the real reason for my fear/shock/dread of this 10th reunion is that I don’t have any really impressive accomplishments to brag about to my former classmates.

I’m not a doctor, business owner, or professional athlete. I haven’t cured cancer, made a million bucks, or appeared on a Wheaties box.

I haven’t traveled to sub-Saharan Africa to teach the poor how to farm, or how to drill a well – for oil, or clean drinking water.

I can’t compete with any of that.

Oh, I know it’s not really all that bad. I haven’t been sitting on my ass all that time.

In the past 10 years, I’ve gone to grad school, published a few papers, had a few jobs, met some nice ladies.

I’ve tasted many, many different beers, played with many, many different dogs, watched a few ball games, ate some great ramen, and met Corbin Bernsen.

I also met Terrell Owens, which is an awkward story for another day.

And then there’s this here blog. Say what you want, but it’s mine – all mine. 100% original material (except for most of the photos).

Some kids aspire to be a baseball player, or a doctor, or a business owner, or maybe even President of the United States.

Me? There was a time when I dreamed of playing ball, curing autoimmune diseases, decoding the human genome, and solving world hunger.

That was when I was four years old.

But by the time I was six or so, I knew there must be something else for me to pursue:

Blogging.

Yes, I’ve known that I’ve wanted to be a blogger since I was 6 years old.

Between the Muppets, Sesame Street, and G.I. Joe, I’d dream of a magical electronic medium by which one could express random thoughts around the globe at the speed of electrons flying through miles of copper cable.

As a child, Big Bird helped guide me towards blogging. "H" is for HTML.

This would allow me to pass along completely arbitrary tidbits of advice and knowledge across the nation and the world – except where those damn commie Soviets and their cronies would censor this new form of communication.

Also, I’d try to make the stuff somewhat funny.

Anyway, my point is that this longtime (26 years) blogging dream of mine has finally been fulfilled.

Maybe I’m not a hedge fund millionaire. And nobody calls me doctor – unless I pay them to do so.

But I have a blog, goddamn it. And I will spend every waking hour between now and my 10-year college reunion convincing myself that this is something to be proud of.

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Are You Ready For Some Taxes?

(My weekly article from The Love Of Sports. It's tax time folks. And everyone's looking for deductions - including pro athletes.)

It’s baseball season. I should be solely focused on my fantasy team, and the National League East race. I should be looking forward to months of hot baseball action, as the boys of summer begin finding their grooves, and we’re able to separate the stars from the has-beens. The cream always rises to the top after a month or so.

It’s a great time of year and one of my favorite seasons in the sporting calendar – second only to the early fall, when the NFL is gearing up for their grueling and exciting 17 weeks of violent fun.

However, when I look at the calendar right now, there is one absolutely massive obstacle in the path to my personal enjoyment of, well, just about anything.

Tuesday April 15th.

I’m not talking about the Mets vs. Nationals game at Shea – although it promises to be a real barnburner.

No, I’m talking about the deadline to file your taxes.

Have you forgotten about it? If so, it’s pretty much time to start panicking. But I’m glad I reminded you.

Normally, I’m way ahead of the curve with this. I loves me some refund checks from the IRS.

Things are different this year, though.

I’m not sure if it’s because I’m in a new tax bracket, or just don’t have as many deductions as I used to, but Uncle Sam will not be sending me much, if anything in the way of refunds this year. So there goes my motivation to gather my forms, fill out the worksheets, and fire up the TurboTax software.

And thus, here I am, with the April 15th deadline screaming towards me like a Dice-K gyroball, and my taxes have yet to be filed.

The pressure’s on. It’s the bottom of the ninth – and since there are still several days left before the 15th, I guess the proper analogy is that I only have one out. But I’m down by 7 runs, and I can’t find my 2007 W-2. Also, I’ve just received notice that my 2006 Form DTF-686-ATT (New York Reportable Disclosure Statement and Request For a Determination) is incomplete, and will need to be submitted again. I’m pretty sure I don’t know what the hell that is.

Anyway, all this anxiety-inducing tax talk got me to thinking – it must be nice to be a pro ball player and have someone do your taxes for you. Also, it must be nice because I bet the deductions you can take are rather extensive when you’re always on the road, and your body is essentially your business.

For example, here are a few baseball player tax deductions – at least as I’d imagine them:

- Manny Ramirez’s Maserati: Non-reimbursed transportation and commuting expenses. Whatever keeps Manny happy and showing up for work is a legitimate deduction, according to Red Sox accountants.

Manny claims a deduction for this awesome grill. He wheels it into his parking space when he drives to the ballpark - "Manny no like when space gone when he come home." Funny thing is, Manny has his own 4-car garage.

- A-Rod’s $1200 designer sunglasses: Legitimate business expense, as the glasses protect him from sun and paparazzi camera flashes, preserving his eyesight so as to strike out only when his at-bats actually matter.

- Prince Fielder’s aerobics class membership: The Brewers and the IRS understand that if Prince isn’t careful, his body could soon resemble that of his father’s. In other words, a cross between Jabba the Hut and a Butterball frozen turkey.

- Derek Jeter’s scented hair crème and almond butter body lotion: Jeter’s business is as much about slick fielding and solid hitting as it is looking oh-so-fine for the ladies. It’s almost a no-brainer that the IRS would allow for this deduction. They’re probably in love with him as well. I just wish they'd admit it.


Best of luck to you as you race against the IRS clock, and try to get your act together by the 15th. May your deductions be as plentiful as your frustrations and anxiety.

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Poor, Poor Olympic Torch

(Warning: What follows is a highly sophisticated and erudite analysis of the Chinese government's human rights abuse and the geopolitical consequences as witnessed by recent demurrals against passage of the Olympic Torch through non-Chinese territories. Also, David Archuleta is AWESOME!!!!!)

Hey hippie protesters, what did the Olympic Torch ever do to you? Let that flame be!!

This beautiful flame represents physical fitness, obscure and unusual sports, and historically declining television ratings. It has nothing to do with the oppression, injustice, violence and human rights abuses of the Chinese government.

A member of Liechtenstein's 2008 Ladies' Olympic Candle Pin Bowling Team, running through the streets of Liechtenstein's capital - Liechtenstein.

If you want to do some protesting about all that stuff, go to China!! Don't clog up our streets and try to tackle the guy or girl in the tracksuit holding the torch.

Actually, to be entirely accurate, the Olympic flame represents Prometheus's theft of fire from Zeus - thus delivering the gift of fire to the human race. He was punished by being chained to a rock, and having his liver or brain eaten by birds or dogs on a daily basis - or something like that. I'm sure you're familiar with the tale.

Ridiculous story? Yes. But it shows how prescient Zeus was. He knew that we would eventually turn that gift of fire into an absolute shit storm - resulting in burned out warehouses, acres of scorched forests, that awful smell of burnt hair, and the McRib sandwich.

True story? Perhaps. The liver (or brain) does regenerate to a certain extent. And birds (or dogs) absolutely LOVE liver (or brain). In any case, I'll be waiting for Mythbusters to bust this one before completely dismissing it.

Actual, original daguerreotype of Prometheus escaping from Zeus with fire in hand. Myth? Perhaps not.

I guess my point is that fire has been a great gift, delivered to the human race many, many years ago. We should cherish that gift.

I realize that most of these protests aren't really about the Olympic flame - the Chinese government can be real assholes to their own people, and that makes many hippies mad.

But it also makes me mad. I hate assholes who put innocent people in dungeons and/or run them over with tanks. It's just not cool.

But don't blame the flame.

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The Tiny Strong Indian Man In All Of Us

Don't laugh. This guy's for real.

I just wanted to show you a picture of the world's tiniest weight lifter (little guy on the left).

His name's Aditya "Romeo" Dev. He stands 2 feet 9 inches tall, and weighs a little less than 20 pounds.

And sometimes, when I look out at the big, wide world, or gaze across the street at my neighbor's absolutely massive flat-screen TV, I feel a bit like him - very, very small. Or at least, that's what I imagine he must feel like.

The similarities don't end there.

Both Romeo and myself can lift in excess of 5 pounds, and we're rather proud of our physiques. Additionally, as you can see from the photo, Romeo is incredibly well-proportioned for a man of his unusually small size. Likewise, my torso forms a perfect golden rectangle. And my head is a nearly flawless oval - smooth and gently curved - as if it's spent a good amount of time in a gem tumbler.

I can't say for sure that it hasn't.

Sometimes, you know, it does feel like my head's been put through a spin cycle, so to speak. And the big city is just an overwhelming maze of cement and glass. And trash and Starbucks. I wonder if I really belong here. Can I make it in this concrete jungle?

But then I take a page out of Romeo Dev's miniaturized notebook. He's the smallest guy in the gym. Always. Anywhere he goes. That's guaranteed. And what's also guaranteed is the reactions he'll get when he walks into that gym.

Shock, surprise, ridicule. I'm sure he's seen it all. But he keeps working out and keeps pumping tiny iron, blocking out the stares and whispers all around him.

And you know what? He's proud to be the littlest guy. He strives to be known as the strongest toy-like, fully-grown human in the world. And he may have already achieved his goal. But that's ultimately up to the good folks over at the Guinness Book Of World Records.

I wish I could say I was the best at something, for someone of my size. I'm certainly not nearly the strongest, or the smartest, or the fastest 6-feet tall, 180 pound guy in the world (of all 2 billion or so of us out there). But I'm also not the weakest or the dumbest - if you'll allow me to toot my own horn for a moment.

I'm ok with that. I am who I am. And Lil' Romeo is ok with it too.

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DUMBO, Brooklyn - Some Initial Thoughts

I can’t help but write about my new neighborhood. It’s so much different from my old neighborhood. My recent move from the East Village to Brooklyn has really opened my eyes.

Here are just a few quick observations. I’m sure I’ll have plenty more as I continue to explore my new environs.

My new neighborhood, DUMBO – which stands for “Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass” - is an old warehouse/industrial district located between the Manhattan and Brooklyn bridges just across the East River from Manhattan.

So basically, the acronym “D.U.M.B.O.” is pure bullshit.

That being said, overall I really like my new ‘hood. But there are some other things about the area that are totally bullshit:

1) Only one Starbucks within walking distance.

2) Crappy cobblestone streets. Quaint, yes. But driving around here totally kicks the shit out of my poor little Mazda. Think of it as driving through Beirut, circa 1987.

A typical DUMBO streetscape - Pearl Street, between Front and York (2 blocks from my apartment).

3) Brooklyn-Queens Expressway within spitting distance of my apartment. This is both a blessing and a curse. A constant stream of diesel exhaust flows through my living quarters, and the sounds of traffic never seem to stop. Why, just the other night I had a dream that I was debating Abraham Lincoln – in the middle of the highway during rush hour. The upside is that we can easily get to Brooklyn AND Queens via this highway. Its moniker (unlike DUMBO’s) is truly accurate.

4) A fully equipped camera crew was filming a Capital One commercial on my block this weekend, starring a Kenyan marathon runner. That’s not the really the bullshit part. I have nothing against Kenyans or marathon runners. Rather, I was really annoyed that the crew wouldn’t let me leave my building until the cameras stopped rolling. I’m not good enough to be an extra? I could totally blend in with the crowd. I was wearing a blue sweater, gray hat, running shoes, and a wristwatch. Also, I had on exactly zero pants.

5) The local market, “Peas ‘n Pickles,” has a lousy pickle selection. The pea selection is pretty solid, but again, the name is somewhat misleading. On the upside, the beer selection is great. Should be called “Peas ‘n Beer” or just “Beer.”

6) Neighborhood furniture store to human ratio = 3 to 1. All we need now is a Pottery Barn, and we’ll have completed the set.

Lest you think I’m complaining too much, here’s something about the neighborhood that’s totally awesome: WEEKLY STEVE BUSCEMI SIGHTINGS. My last one was in “Peas ‘n Pickles.” He was buying a pack of gum. He didn’t look like he wanted to talk to me.

Totally out of context - a picture of Steve Buscemi not waving at me, nowhere near "Peas 'n Pickles" market.

I’ll let you know how the next encounter goes.

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A Trip To The Market

A move out of Manhattan brings with it a wealth of new conveniences.

For example:

- Parking spaces

- Trees

- Less than a 45 minute wait for brunch

- Actual, honest-to-goodness, no joking around supermarkets

For now, I’d like to focus on the last item from the list above.

Anyone who’s ever lived in Manhattan knows that the two most prevalent supermarket chains – Gristedes and D’Agostino’s – totally suck shit, big time.

They’re usually grimy, dimly lit, overpriced, overcrowded, and understaffed. Generally, when you visit one of these stores, you can count on a less than pleasant shopping experience.

Beer selection at Gristedes - less than adequate.



Dry goods aisle at D'Agostino's - are these guys even trying to run a decent supermarket?

This is just one of the many sacrifices Manhattanites make when they sign up to live in the most exciting city in the country (Pyongyang, North Korea is arguably the most exciting city in the world, due to the constant threat of nuclear war, unexpected abductions by the communist government’s secret police force, and ever-present famine. It’s like a non-stop party – except minus the fun.)

As I’ve mentioned previously, Jaimi and I recently moved out to Brooklyn. We’ve been busy unpacking and I’m proud to say we’ve definitely unpacked at least 10% of our belongings. Not bad for a week’s worth of work.

And with this Saturday’s deliverance from a week-long lack of cable and internet, a great amount of stress and anxiety was washed away. I was able to concentrate on moving my life forward. We finally had some time to explore the neighborhood, clean the apartment, unpack, etc.

But instead of all that, we headed to Fairway.

For those of you outside of the New York Metro area, you may be unfamiliar with this supermarket chain. There are only 4 locations.

It’s also likely that if you live outside of New York, then you haven’t had to endure the shitty-ass supermarkets we have here. I’m a little concerned that my point of view has been permanently tainted by the trauma I’ve experienced at Gristedes and D’Agostino’s.

So maybe Fairway wouldn’t be all that impressive to you.

But then I think about the friendly employees – every register was open!! I saw zero employees smoking on the loading dock!! And I remind myself of the large selection of prepared foods, and a huge fresh produce department. They had seven different types of tropical melons, for God’s sake!!

So upon further reflection, I’d be willing to bet Fairway matches up pretty well with anything you’re used to.

Whether you frequent the local Albertson’s, Safeway, Piggly Wiggly, or Stop ‘n Shop, you’re not likely to find a better selection of olives.

If you typically go to Acme, Super Fresh, or Kroger, I don’t think you could find a wider array of imported cheeses.

Publix? Shaw’s? You’re not gonna find a better selection of freshly roasted whole bean coffees.

Jaimi spent her time perusing the produce selection, and visiting the seafood department. I think she also got some cereal and some ground turkey with which to make her famous turkey meatloaf.

I picked up some cheese, salami, beer, and coffee. In other words, I covered all of The Mill’s four food groups:

1) Beer
2) Cured Meats
3) Cheese
4) Caffeine

Fairway is awesome for all of my four groups. I believe they also have eggs, milk, bread, granulated sugar, and apples and other popular food items– but I can’t be entirely sure. It's best to call the store before you go.

But without a doubt, if you’re in the market for bacon, beer, and/or brie, then I can safely say that Fairway is your place.

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All Hail The Cable Guy

I'm up and running.

Cooking with grease.

Downloading at many, many megabits per second.

Yes, the cable guy arrived this morning and hooked my shit all up.

And to add excellence to this ecstasy, he arrived at the very beginning of the 4 hour scheduled window. He was supposed to be here somewhere between 10 am and 2 pm.

Normally, I'd just assume that he'd get here at 1:55. But for perhaps the first time in human history, the cable guy arrived at the very beginning of that alloted time window. In fact, he was even a few minutes early.

I almost kissed him.

I guess I'm glad I didn't, as I'm not so sure how that would have gone over. But with my internet fired up and humming along ever so nicely, I don't think I would have even felt the sharp pain of his fist against my jaw.

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More Complaining Due To Lack Of Internet

(An article for The Love Of Sports, in which I complain yet again about my current lack of internet. I guess it's really getting to me. I don't know. You won't have to listen to me whine about it after this though - I promise.)

The fantasy baseball season is officially rocking and rolling.

What a terrible time to be moving into a new apartment.

You may be asking - What on God’s green earth does that have to do with sports?

The answer? Plenty. More than you could ever possibly imagine.

You see, I’m currently living a full-fledged fantasy baseball (and to a lesser extent, fantasy basketball) nightmare.

Now you’re probably wondering:

- Was my team devastated by injuries during Spring training?

- Did I mistakenly draft the wrong Ryan Braun in the first round (scrub pitcher for the Royals, instead of stud third baseman for the Brewers)?

- Am I upset with my team name and the league commissioner won’t allow me to change it?

No, almost, and maybe - although I’m not going to make a big stink about the team name thing.

Anyway, the abomination to end all abominations is the fact that my new apartment, as of right now, DOES NOT HAVE AN INTERNET CONNECTION.

The cable guy will be mounting a rescue mission on Saturday to hook us up, so relief is in sight. But until then, I must endure the horror, and the painful cramps of withdrawal.

The first thing that comes to mind as I reflect upon my current state of disconnectedness is the familiar saying, “You don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone.”

To take it a step further – and to borrow some lyrics from the “Chicago” smash-hit soft-rock love ballad “Hard Habit To Break”:

Living without you is all a big mistake.

Instead of getting easier, it’s the hardest thing to take.

I’m addicted to you (internet), you’re a hard habit to break.

And to quote Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young – in yet another ballad of loving and losing – “if you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with.”

In other words, I can still access the mobile internet on my cell phone, but it just ain’t the same as a high-speed cable connection.

And so, I sit huddled in the corner of my new living room, buttocks firmly planted on the freshly waxed floor (we don’t have any chairs yet), surrounded by so many unpacked boxes, endlessly mumbling the refrain to my own song of internet mourning:

The internet’s been my best friend for years.

Now I realize it, and it’s bringin’ me to tears.

This sorrow that I’m feelin’ is not just about baseball.

It’s NBA, it’s college hoops, it’s Skype long distance phone calls.

(Chorus)

Yes internet I miss you.

Sweet internet I need you.

When you’re not here I won’t eat, I won’t speak.

And without you, recently injured Victor Martinez will stay on my roster all week.

(Repeat 4x)

The melody is basically three repeating power chords on the electric keyboard, with a slow electronica beat.

In any case, as an avid fantasy sports fan I’ve come to really appreciate the power of the internet. It’s hard not to take it for granted. And it’s become the lifeblood of any sports fan, fantasy or otherwise.

Let’s face it, nobody reads the newspaper anymore for sports scores and injury updates. ESPN is good, but who wants to sit through 20 minutes of golf, soccer, and tennis highlights, when all you want is the damn baseball box scores.

The internet is there 24/7, for all your sporting needs. It never gets tired, although it occasionally refuses your query or can’t find the page you’re looking for. But it always apologizes in such instances.

So yes, the internet is a dear, dear friend of mine. And I miss it something awful.

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Nightmare To End All Nightmares

Jaimi and I moved into our new place in Brooklyn yesterday. So far so good - except for the intense, incredibly realistic, never-ending nightmare part of it.

You see, I’ve got very limited internet access these days. It won’t be turned on until Saturday. And the wireless networks in the building are all secure, so no poaching.

Just trying to get by. Taking things day by day, you know?

Sometimes, I think to myself, things aren’t so bad. I could be a lot worse off. I mean, my iPhone works. So I can view sports scores and check my Gmail, even if it is over AT&T’s less than high-speed EDGE network.

But then I remind myself of how my regular internet doesn’t work. And how I have to go to Starbucks to send email, or write a blog post, or bid on some used furniture on eBay – for my nearly empty, new apartment.

And I feel sorry for myself. So sorry.

Poor, poor Mill. As isolated as a wildflower in the desert – in a cyberspace kind of way.

I wonder what’s being posted at Boing Boing right now. What did Perez Hilton have to say today?

What’s the latest he-said, she-said to rock the Obama-Clinton battle? Only the internet can tell me.

I’m sure you can see how difficult my life is right now.

But as I said before, things could be worse. I could be in the hospital (get well soon Mario!). I could be faced with foreclosure on my home, if I owned one. I could be locked out of my new apartment. My girlfriend could have left me - although her name’s on the lease so I’m not sure where she’d go.

It’s time to put things in perspective. After all, it’s not like I’m on trial for a crime I didn’t commit, and it’s not as if my internet doesn’t work.

Oh shit. My internet DOESN’T work. That’s why I’m sitting in this cold, barren Starbucks.

It’s so creepy in here. The place just reeks of extra-bold, fresh coffee, and delicious muffins. There are yuppies everywhere. I think I just paid 4 dollars for a hot chocolate.

Also, I swear I just saw the ghost of a dead Bichon Frise in a tiny Polo sweater chewing on a croissant. Oh wait, that’s a living Bichon in a Polo sweater chewing on a low-fat blueberry scone. My mistake.

Time-Warner Cable, take me away from this waking nightmare with your high-speed internet service!!! Take me home on a 400 foot length of coaxial cable (that’s about how far the new apartment is from Starbucks – we’re in New York City, after all).

And so, I’ll struggle to write for the rest of this week. And God willing, through sheer force of iron will and strength of character, I’ll make it to Saturday, when a cable company representative will appear at my door and make it all better.

Pray for me.

I know I’ll be praying for myself. After all, I don’t have much else to do without cable or internet.

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